


Nos Gerere

by pheonixgate1



Series: Nos Gerere [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst and Feels, F/M, Hopefully in-character, M/M, Multi, Not A Fix-It, Or Is It?, This hit like a fever, We Go Forth--A-Conquering, depictions of gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2020-03-04 22:14:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 48,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18821806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pheonixgate1/pseuds/pheonixgate1
Summary: The land of Eos is cleansed of the Scourge and begins to heal; the fractured infrastructure that has been in place for countless millennia seeks to do the same. Daemons still exist and Lucis still needs a king. The power of the crystal may wane, but it has chosen its next champion. Too bad its champion has little patience for any of it.Or: The one where Ignis becomes King.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this work was supposed to be, ‘We Go Forth, a-Conquering’ but in English it was too clunky and awkward. After fighting Google Translate for thirty minutes, it regurgitated this bit of Latin. So here we are.
> 
> Also, I’m not going to lie, I barely played FF15 (played the hell out of Comrades though). It took a long time for me to be able to appreciate the story (read: tragedy) and to get over the total lack of female playable characters (which would have been partially fixed by Episodes Aranea and Lunafreya that are now canned :/). I intend to start going through the DLC episodes (especially Ignis and Prompto) while I wait on Shadowbringers (FF14) so if certain lore bits don’t mesh, well… I play the Artistic License card. Its super-effective!
> 
> WARNING: This first chapter will have semi-graphic depictions of gore. You have been warned.

He remembers the moment it happened.

 

 

 _They were back to back to back; the void left by their King (their friend, their brother) an awkward shuffle to which they constantly had to adjust. The hordes seemed to go on forever and part of Gladio was satisfied by this. Better to perish here, in battle, in_ service _than to languish in a world that would know the Legend but never the man. Would remember a name but not the awkward affections or crippling fears or, in the end; the quiet determination of a soul who was carefully but wholly loved._

_Yes, death was far preferable to an existence without this purpose. This honor. A life forever bereft._

_Only the thinnest of tethers kept him from charging wildly into the heart of the fray, to his inevitable death. It was the same thread that connected them all. To their duty. To each other. He doesn’t know when he lost himself to it. To the motions. His body on autopilot while his heart bled and cried and twined with sorrow._

_It was only when his sword met air that he came back to himself. When the sky turned pink, then orange, then yellow before finally settling into blue; the colors of a sunrise, though the sun had never moved._

_He blinked at the dawn. At the sudden emptiness around him and realized_ none of it was real ** _._**

“Gladio.”

 

 

He starts a little, only now aware that the Marshal has said his name multiple times in order to get his attention. It’s hard remembering that time. Even harder to stop. Cor studies him with an air of quiet dismay, as if he didn’t already know that Gladiolus is the sort of hot mess that even desperate, cornered daemons will steer clear of. That he’s more of a Sword than a Shield these days; mindlessly cutting a swath where ever he’s pointed.

 

It’s the reason he often has a Leonis-shaped shadow. That and the Bells. -He really wishes he’d kept his mouth shut about that.

 

 

“Remember why we’re here.”

 

 

He lets out a slow breath and tries to return to present. It’s never completely successful. A part of him will always be stuck there, counting backwards from the time when Noctis was a living, breathing person. _An hour ago, he was alive. Yesterday, he was alive. A week ago, he was alive. A year ago-_

“Yeah.”

 

 

He doesn’t need the reminder. This has been Gladio’s song and dance for the last two years. If he felt like waking up with a mouth full of sod, he’d ask the _Marshal_ to remember. But that’s both unkind and unfair. He knows why he’s had no help; why he’s been shouldering the burden alone. Unlike him, Cor has been a functioning member of society whose time has been devoted to the living and not the missing, presumed dead.

 

-Or worse, though it’s been a while since he’s heard the other side of it. The traitorous, cowardly side. People tend not to say such things within his hearing anymore. Not since the first time it happened and he came-to under a mixed dogpile of Crownsguard and Glaives.

 

 

He eyes his half-eaten sandwich and wonders why he even ordered it. He’ll just have to pick at it later when it’s even less appealing. Food isn’t as scarce as it once was, but it’s still not for wasting; even if it’s a product of misplaced guilt. They’ve been using the bistro as their vantage point pretty much all day.

 

 

Lestallum looks almost like it did before the Darkness came. The spit-shine doesn’t completely wipe away the ground-in desperation of a refugee city but it’s getting there. A bit of serendipity that Lady Auburnbrie has decided to make it her home, instead of her tiny shack out in the wilds. Her widely-known reputation for unique curatives is the only reason they even have a lead—that and the fact that every town and haven on the continent is on alert, thanks to the Hunter’s Network.

 

 

It’s Day Two of their stakeout. When they’re not darkening the Lady’s door, Gladio has been taking the time to check in with Iris and Talcott, who have stayed here not only because of the connections but also because the Capitol is still 60% unlivable--their ancestral home included. He knows she worries for him, they both do. His skin has been worn paper-thin and his attempts at normality are likely just as transparent. But still, he tries.

 

 

They are all he has. And until his last breath he will keep trying; his withered, broken heart be damned.

 

 

Before he can drift into melancholy again, he hears the Marshal’s chair creak and when he looks up, he can see the other man is tense and alert. He looks across to the stoup where the once ‘Witch of the Woods’ makes her home and sure enough, someone is there.

 

 

And just like that, Gladio is instantly in the present.

 

 

Its evening now and while there’s a lamp post nearby, it creates just enough shadow that its impossible to see anything other than a human-shaped blob. When Lady Auburnbrie opens the door to usher the caller inside, he tries to make out any features (a flash of dull gold, the glare of glasses) but it’s to no avail. The report states the man wears a full hood and mask. An odd choice for a Hunter, especially in Lestallum where they are considered the unsung heros of Lucis.

 

 

Odd unless they are trying to hide some distinctive facial scarring.

 

 

Gladiolus doesn’t let his mind go there quite yet. There could be a number of reasons for the man’s secrecy. He almost feels bad. Whatever the man’s hiding, they’ll know the truth of it before the night’s over; whether he’s who their looking for or not.

 

 

Cor is already up, throwing a leg over the low metal fence separating the restaurant from the street. He drops a few wadded bills on the table before doing the same. The information about their mystery man was given by the Lady herself. They are to wait for her signal before proceeding, at her behest.

 

 

Violence isn’t expected but they are being cautious anyway. Not just because of the potential threat to a prominent citizen, but also because they could possibly be dealing with the future King of Lucis. -Assuming its really their man.

 

 

 _His_ man. His _friend_. Gladiolus’ hands are sweating; clenching. He’s so close. Barely yards away with just a plank of wood and open air between. The Marshal is a pillar of controlled strength next to him and he tries very hard to emulate that. He finds himself praying: _Please. Let this be it. Let this be_ him _…_

 

And they wait.

 

 

*

 

 

Something is different.

 

 

Not in the long trek here. That is always full of unknown variables. Predictable by its very unpredictability, it is never the same trip twice. And while Lestallum itself has changed much since he’d started to frequent the city again, it is not the cause of the prickle of unease that’s settled under his skin.

 

 

The Lady Auburnbrie, who’s has become a bit of a celebrity among hunters and Glaives alike, hums quietly as she prepares his packet of medicine. It’s the only thing that combats the debilitating migraines that have suddenly become a part of his everyday life. She usually includes a draught that helps him sleep, so he no longer has to work until he passes out; which is the only way he can get to sleep on a good day. On a bad day he just… doesn’t.

 

 

Still, he can’t shake the feeling. That something is off. He’s battled and overcome this kind of paranoia many times since being blinded, but this… This is different. From a different place. Almost like… an echo.

 

 

He realizes, just as there’s a knock at the door, that there’s a lamp on in the sitting room. Likely by a window. He heard the click earlier but didn’t realize what it meant until now.

 

 

A signal.

 

 

He wants to sigh. Whatever this is, it probably won’t be good but he was fully aware of the risks when he chose the comforts of medicine (and subsequent risk of exposure) over trembling on the ground in a fetal position as his head comes apart at the seams.

 

 

“Oh my. So busy tonight. Will you wait, just here? It will only be a moment.”

 

 

He inclines his head in the direction of her voice and listens as she sidles over to the door. He dismisses the urge to slouch into himself, or withdraw further into the house. There’s no cause for it. He’s broken no laws. He is, in fact, paying for legitimate services with premium monster parts that are likely worth the rent of this place three times over.

 

 

No words are exchanged as she opens the door and he hears the tread of one—no, _two_ people. Though one is being very cautious and stops just inside the threshold.

 

 

The other steps with purpose and if it wasn’t obvious that this was a setup, the way they make a beeline right for him makes it abundantly clear.

 

 

“Pardon the intrusion, Lady Auburnbrie. -I’ll keep this brief.”

 

 

He feels as though he’s been hit by a bucket of ice water. He knows that voice. It’s the Immortal; Cor Leonis. He’d heard, both from his previous visits to Lestallum and more recently during trade at various hunter swap meets that he and a number of other notable Crownsguard and Glaives were still in operation. But being as far removed as he was from that life, the knowledge held little meaning to him.

 

 

Now, however, it means the jig is very likely up.

 

 

“As for you, I suppose by now you know what this is. I need to ask you some questions. You are under no obligation of course, but no one is leaving here until they get answered. Can I count on your cooperation?”

 

 

This is it. He’s spent the last two years in a kind of limbo while he picked up the shattered pieces of himself. Somehow, he scratched a life out of what was left. It’s not much, but it’s his. The only thing that has every truly belonged to him and him alone.

 

 

He takes a breath; savoring the last bit of obscurity before resigning himself to fate once more.

 

 

“Once upon a time you were far more polite, Marshal.”

 

 

For a moment, there is only silence. He hears Cor’s quick intake of breath but before the Marshal can respond, a horrible croak comes from whoever is hovering by the door. He tenses because it’s exactly the kind of sound someone makes when they’ve suffered a hard, unexpected blow but he’d have heard the impact—

 

 

“- _Gladio_.”

 

 

And Ignis whites out as he goes back to

_waking up suddenly, like a switch flipping on. He takes stock of himself, tries to orient. The last thing he remembers is entering the throne room with Noctis and the others, hearing Ardyn’s mocking then… nothing. As he moves to right himself, he nudges something that he’s almost sure is a leg._

(Somewhere in the part of his mind that’s still in the present, he tries desperately to pull away; his psyche thrashing, _writhing_ but the memory holds fast. Terrified, he wonders if there will only be dust left in its wake this time. For something so shattered, so destroyed can never be made whole again.

 

It must be made anew and he has neither the strength nor the inclination.)

 

 

 _At first he thinks he is merely the first to wake, obviously he was not the only one felled. But as he inspects his companions, his heightened senses make it clear that he is not just the first but the_ only _. The only life, the only breath that lingers where they lay is his own._

 

 _He scrabbles for proof. Wanting his senses to be wrong, even though they_ never are _._

 

_Nerveless fingers flutter up the large, still body beside him until they grasp for the face; the scar. He reaches the chin and its stubble but to his horror the rest is a concave mass of broken bones and cartilage; the flesh pulped and ruined. His fingers come back slicked; shaking. He thinks it has to be someone else, must be until he grasps for the wrist and feels a familiar line of cheap, flaking beads._

_It’s the bracelet made by Gladio’s sister, of simple pony beads on a string that had almost been lost in a fight at the Vesperpool. The same bracelet Noct had waded out in the water for, with Ignis as spotter until all the pieces had been found. The same bracelet Prompto had restrung with Noct’s fishing line, using some of his tackle for an improvised clasp. Gladio had been embarrassed by the whole ordeal but his soft pleased smile as they camped that night had been their reward. From that day forth, if it wasn’t on the Shield’s wrist it was in his pocket. A beloved trinket that had been touched by them all._

_It takes him a moment to register the soft sounds of distress are coming from himself._

_The figure on his other side is smaller, he’s almost afraid to touch but he can tell its Prompto. His face is cool but intact. A tiny spark of hope flairs in his chest until he examines further and finds that the other man’s Kingsglaive attire isn’t just open, his entire torso is open—ribs sharp and flared out despite the heavy fabric. He scrambles away and retches; his body cold with shock._

_He doesn’t remember going outside but he finds himself there, nonetheless. He vaguely recalls checking the throne room for Noctis, giving his—giving the bodies a wide-berth. But the King wasn’t among the fallen. Not_ yet _._

_In the distance, above the roar of flames he can hear the clamor as the battle between King and Usurper rages on._

The memory releases him and the world slides once more into familiar shadows. He’s suddenly aware that he has his hands on someone’s face; his wrists held gently in large, callused hands. He can’t feel the scar through his gloves but smell of him is like a fingerprint on his brain. He can feel the faint heat of the Marshal at his back, close enough to intervene but there’s no need. He has no intention, no reason to hurt anyone but right now he has a question of his own and he has to know…

 

 

“Gladiolus. Is it really _you_?”

 

 

His voice is barely a whisper. A second ago he had spoken with confidence, but it’s been so long with no hope; it’s all he can do to breathe the words past his lips.

 

 

One of the hands on his wrists detaches itself and he feels the barest of touch against his ruined eye. His hood must be off. He can hear that the other’s breath is soft, erratic. But when the words come, sandpaper rough, its confirmation enough.

 

 

“Yeah. It’s me.”

 

 

Ignis is not prone to great shows of affection but he grabs onto him; arms slithering around until they lock behind his back. He has a few seconds of forgivable shock before Gladio responds in kind and he is crushed into a vice of arms and chest. He wonders if the former Shield can feel the smile against his clavicle just as he can feel the quiet hitching sobs beneath it.

 

 

He hears an exhale behind him and the Marshal’s voice; exasperated but mild.

 

 

“Well, I suppose that answers _that_.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More mysteries ahead. I promise they'll eventually be explained. But right now its all about them bois.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, Prompto will not be side-lined in this fic. There are also some surprise pairings that I chose not to list for spoiler reasons. (Also I have no Beta, so please forgive any grammar/syntax errors--Microsoft Word barely puts up with me as it is).

Cor grunts as he slows for another pothole, the dirt road they’re on just barely that. A glance into the rearview mirror shows that the rough terrain is no match for physical and emotional exhaustion. Gladiolus sits with his arms crossed and head down; he’s asleep but he knows as soon as the motion stops he’ll be awake. Alert.

 

 

It’s a bit of a relief to see him like this again. He’s been a wreck since before they put the King on ice, most of it wrapped around Scientia who is currently asleep beside him; as close as physically possible without being in the larger man’s lap.

 

He knows the two of them were close, but the former Hand of the King has his nose tucked under Gladio’s ear and he has to wonder how much of this is relief and how much is an echo of what they had before.

 

 

He figures it doesn’t matter. Gladio can pick up right where he left off since Scientia is officially next in line for the throne. As for the Heir-Apparent himself, well. He seemed both surprised and resigned when told of his new status. He’d always wondered what Regis had been thinking, raising him along with the Prince like that. It was not uncommon to have an advisor assigned to a royal at a young age but Ignis had been six when he came to the Citadel and it had certainly raised a few eyebrows at the time; his own included.

 

 

It seems he’d known, even back then, about the fate of his son. He’d not only gone out of his way to procure Noctis a brother-in-arms but a brother-in-law as well.

 

 

That part, at least, makes sense. And it’s not like Scientia isn’t exemplary because he certainly is. Cor’s heard the story behind the man’s blindness. The same ring that took the life of Nyx Ulric had spared all but his sight. And despite that, he went off and relearned everything to the point that his fighting prowess is arguably _better_ than it was. Definitely good enough for a four-man push into the daemon-infested capitol. Front line of the siege.

 

 

The thing that didn’t make sense is how he got from Insomnia to some back-water shack in _Cleigne_ seemingly in less than twenty-four hours and under the nose the remaining Crownsguard and Glaives that had descended on the Citadel in the wake of the coming Dawn.

 

 

He claims he has no memory of it.

 

 

According to the questioning he’d finally submitted to, the Hand had very little memory of _anything_ until recently; within the last year or so, which corroborates the intel they’d gathered on his comings and goings in Lestallum. If he hadn’t seen the reunion between he and Gladio he might have harbored doubts but his gut tells him that can’t be faked. Until a short time ago he truly believed Gladio to be dead—the Argentum kid too.

 

 

His testimony is the final piece of a puzzle Cor’s been trying to put together since retaking Insomnia. He’s finally heard all three reports from that day, and while they all differ they seem to branch off at a single point. It can’t be coincidence.

 

 

“Marshal.”

 

 

A less experienced man would have launched his unfortunate passengers into the front of the cab in startlement, but Cor Leonis has spent over half a century perfecting his self-control and his leg gives only a twitch before resuming its duty. He glances over at Ignis, detached from his slumbering Shield and leaning through the space between seats to address him.

 

 

 _Gods_ , the man moves like a _shadow_.

 

“Yes, what is it?”

 

 

He notices that Scientia doesn’t bother trying to track according to the sound of his voice. His head only moves when he speaks and only then to make sure he is heard over the roar of the engine.

 

 

“How far until the tree line? Can you see it?”

 

 

It’s been miles of lowland scrub, but out on the horizon is a line that indicates the forest where Scientia has been living. They’ve come to claim whatever meagre possessions he managed to collect before making the long trek to back to the Capitol. To his Ascension.

 

“It’s not too far off, but at the rate we’re going it’ll probably be at least an hour before we get there.”

 

 

That seems to check against whatever information the other man has running in his head. He pauses a moment before speaking again.

 

 

“I have a request to make; it will seem odd but please indulge me. I need you to stop about five-hundred yards from the building, if possible.”

 

 

The grass along the ‘road’ is nearly taller than their vehicle; the plants that had been forced to endure a sun filtered by the pall had reached to the sky with a vengeance.

 

 

Cor does some quick math in his head.

 

“So, basically when I can see the roof over all this brush.”

 

 

Ignis tilts his head in consideration.

 

“That will do, yes. -Can I count on your cooperation, Marshal?”

 

 

He doesn’t understand the wan little smile he receives until he realizes that’s exactly what he’d said to the man back in Lestallum. _Brat._

 

 

“Fine, fine. -I don’t suppose you’ll tell me why I need to put so much space between us and the homestead?”

 

 

He looks again, and the former chamberlain is nestled back into Gladio’s side, like he never moved at all. Cor tightens his hands on the wheel and decides ignorance is the better part of valor. Thankfully, they’re catching an airship to the Capitol so he won’t be subjected to anymore inappropriate if excusable _snuggling 1_.

 

 

When they finally reach their destination, the mystery of that careful distance becomes apparent when a huge mottled Torama2 slinks out of the grass and makes for Scientia, who is standing very still in the middle of the road.

 

 

Cor has to _sit_ on Gladio to keep him from doing something stupid, like spooking it; the former Hand had given them only a vague order to wait as he approached the hut. He watches, knee in the Shield’s back, as it pads right up to the other man and (after a terrifying pause) rubs its _whole body_ against him—like some sort of house cat instead of three hundred pounds of muscle, tooth and claw. Gladiolus is making a ruckus pinned under Cor as he is, but after doing its feline duty it merely disappears back into the brush.

 

 

Ignis gives an ‘all-clear’ and he lets Gladio up.

 

 

The two of them end up having a shouting match that Cor steers clear of by waiting outside the shack; it’s a short one because it’s pretty much Gladio doing the shouting and it cuts off abruptly for reasons he doesn’t want to think about. They emerge only a few minutes after; the sum of the other man’s possessions depressingly small. He has with him a bundle of clothing that, judging by the distinct buttons, is his Kingsglaive uniform and a repurposed wine bottle filled with… something.

 

 

“Shouldn’t you be leaving that for the next guy?”

 

 

Scientia pauses.

 

 

“I have left plenty for the next person. There are a number of provisions I’ve taken the liberty of restocking along with various other sundry items that a weary hunter might appreciate. -This however,” He holds up the bottle and Cor can see there’s flowers and herbs suspended in the liquid, “-is an untried recipe that possibly could do more harm than good. It is also two months of my life. I can’t help but feel I’m entitled.”

 

 

With that, Ignis begins the trek back to their transport. He is followed by a slightly-dazed Gladiolus, whose fingers keep ghosting to his mouth. Cor huffs and makes a mental note to have the Hunters update their maps. It’s obvious Scientia has been the only inhabitant here for quite some time and while it’s not a proper Haven, it has served their Future King well enough.

 

 

He takes what will likely be his last glance at the place before making his way back to the others. He’d hoped coming out here would solve some of the mystery behind the former Retainer’s disappearance and subsequent reappearance but in the end, it was just a shack in the wilds. -And a Torama.

 

 

He’d best mention that to the Hunters too.

 

 

 

*

 

 

Waking up has always been a bit of an experience, even before he’d been blinded.

 

 

Because his job did not actually have set hours (and yet often required more than was available in a single day), Ignis has, over the years, trained his body to require very little actual sleep. He’s gone so far as to employ various meditation techniques when sleep is not an option but some form of disconnect is needed. Their success is sporadic; thus his perpetual addiction to stimulants. Caffeine specifically.

 

 

The draw-back of such regular sleep deprivation is that when he finally does fall asleep, he falls _hard_.

 

 

Waking up disoriented is nothing new. However, in this particular case it’s especially jarring because he has no idea where he is and no frame of reference as to how he got here. He can feel the cold prickle of terror threatening to overcome him, but he keeps it back with reasoning. He’s not outside. He can remember his name. If he sits here a moment and cycles through his thoughts a bit, he’ll—

 

 

“It’s ok, Iggy. You’re in my apartment. -On my couch this time, because you took pity on my poor gargantuan brother. Remember?”

 

 

The tension slides out of him in a carefully controlled breath. He _does_ remember that. He’d insisted Gladio take the bed because the couch was passably comfortable for him but an ill-fit for the much larger Shield. It had almost turned into another argument until Iris had suggested they share and they both reluctantly retreated to their respective rooms; not quite ready to address this… thing between them.

 

 

He has a brief moment of silence for the loss of waking up wrapped around Gladio like an octopus. Or possibly being the little spoon. They’ll have to have a talk soon, because that sounds quite possibly like the Best Thing Ever.

 

 

“Ahhh, yes. Thank you. -Could I trouble you for the time?”

 

 

He is understandably concerned. The last time he’d slept here, which had been the evening of his reunion with Gladiolus, he’d been out for over eighteen hours. It had only been Cor’s assurance that this was a normal stress-response that had kept them from fetching a doctor.

 

 

“Mmm. It’s early? Not by your standards, probably but its barely decent for the rest of us. -You mind if I sit?”

 

As he is mostly sitting up anyway, he swings his legs around and bundles the sparse bedding off to the side. The couch dips with her weight, and a slightly awkward silence ensues.

 

 

Ignis does not know what to say to her beyond the standard niceties. To his shame, since remembering who and what he was, he has made no overtures to her or Talcott—even as he came to Lestallum for his migraine remedy. A part of him had always been too afraid to reach out; to find that they too, were gone.

 

 

Thankfully, Iris picks up the slack herself.

 

“So, I think I should warn you that anyone who’s _anyone_ is in Lestallum right now. The Hunter Network is good for information gathering but not so good at keeping a lid on it, unfortunately.”

 

 

He doesn’t sigh but the sentiment must be obvious because she hastily continues.

 

“-Look, you’ll be fine in here. Everyone knows the apartment is off-limits; Cor made a pretty big fuss about that and well, no one is really looking to rile Gladdy. He’s been…”

 

 

She sighs and shifts unhappily.

 

 

“It’s been really bad for him. He’s the one who found Noct… after; and took care of him. It killed him to not go looking for you then, even though he knew it was what Noct would have wanted. -But he’s never stopped since. Him and Prom both.”

 

 

He’d gotten most of the pressing details from Cor and to a lesser extent Gladiolus, that night in Lady Auburnbrie’s apartment. That Prompto was alive though not currently in a place where he could present himself as proof, and what had become of Noct. Currently the body of the King was housed in Lestallum General, one of the largest working hospitals on the continent—in cold storage. To be buried once a proper resting place was established.

 

Ignis understands that kind of duty. Had their situations been reversed, he would have done the same. Gladio’s quiet guilt when talking about Prompto, however hints that perhaps the younger man had not shared that particular sentiment.

 

 

He’ll address that later. Right now his immediate concern is becoming presentable enough to face what will likely be a mixed crowd of Glaives, Crownsguard and Hunters. People who have all been diligently doing their part to restore Eos as he whiled away in the woods like a coward.

 

If they don’t end up pelting him with rocks, they’ll probably want a _speech_.

 

 

“I understand. -And I’m grateful. We’re both a bit of a mess right now, but I will do all that is within my power to ensure that we come out of this better than we went in.” He sighs. “Speaking of messes, I don’t suppose you can lead me to a decent shower and a razor?”

 

He runs a hand over his chin and winces at the growth there. The men of his family are not particularly prone to facial hair and unsurprisingly don’t wear it well; not like Gladio or Noct.

 

 

The mood is lifted a bit but that doesn’t stop the trickle of dread at Iris’ low chuckle.

 

“Oh Iggy, I can do _much_ better than that.”

 

 

*

 

 

 _Much better_ turned out to be banging on her bedroom door until Gladio yelled obscenities from the other side.

 

“Get your ass up, Gladdy! You’re on Valet duty!”

 

 

He tried to convince her multiple times that he could very well look after himself in the bathroom but she wouldn’t hear of it. Thankfully Gladio had first-hand experience with his hard-earned independence and allowed him to use the facilities unaided; though judging by the scraping shuffle outside the door, he didn’t go far.

 

 

Things went smoothly until he got to the shaving part. The instrument that had been laid out for him was not one he was familiar with. Like most modern men, he used an electric razor for grooming and always had. The implement was neither electric, nor was it the standard disposable type. He couldn’t make heads or tails of it, quite frankly. And that _rankled_.

 

 

Yet another very simple puzzle that could be solved if only he had eyes to see it.

 

“Gladio.”

 

 

The swiftness of his response confirms that the other man has stationed himself right outside, like a sentinel.

 

“Yeah? -What’s up?”

 

 

His flare of annoyance makes him careful with his words. Disparaging remarks towards the Amicitia hospitality, however small, would kindle Gladio’s ire and they both have enough to deal with; the day promising to be tiresome at best. These small, quiet moments are for savoring and he certainly intends to; come Hell or high-water or inconceivable depilatory equipment.

 

 

He lets the irritation go and succumbs to the inevitable.

 

“What is this contraption you expect me to shave with?”

 

 

The query sounds frustrated enough but he keeps his tone mild. He knows he’s successfully communicated his consternation (sans vitriol) by the chuckle that comes from the door.

 

 

“You’ve never used a straight razor before, have you?” He hears the doorknob turning before he can form a response. “Suppose I ought to do my job then. -I’m coming in.”

 

 

Thankfully he’s mostly covered, not that it matters. Camping in close quarters has pretty much worn away any awkwardness between them when it comes to nakedness. Or odors. Or pissing in places that are not designated restrooms.

 

 

A draft proceeds Gladio into the bathroom before he shuts the door against the chill. His warmth as he crowds into the tiny space chases away the cool—the humidity surrounding them like blanket. He tries to be subtle as he breathes in; the scent of unwashed Shield a comforting oasis amid the lingering perfumes of the shower.

 

 

He’s fairly certain the bottle he’d used as shampoo was shaped like a Moogle. The sweet, vaguely berry scent tries very hard to resemble something that exists in nature but unfortunately _fails miserably_.

 

 

Gladio reaches around him and picks up the razor.

 

“Alright, have a seat.”

 

 

Mentally, Ignis goes over the logistics of what is likely going to happen and takes a seat on the toilet lid. While he’s never used a straight razor, he’s familiar enough with the concept to know that he needs to be positioned lower than Gladio for this to work.

 

 

His impromptu Valet is currently making an odd clamor that sounds suspiciously like food prep. It’s a little disconcerting but he trusts Gladio with his life, and certainly with this task that he obviously has at least some experience with.

 

 

“You ever use shave gel, Iggy? -If you haven’t, this might feel weird.”

 

 

And suddenly a large hand is under his jaw, applying gentle pressure until he tilts his entire face to the ceiling. Something light and cool is being applied to his face and neck. Shaving foam, he assumes. Gel would have actually been off-putting but this is a feather light touch on his skin that’s not unpleasant at all.

 

 

He hears the clink of a dish set aside and the quiet shuffle of a towel. Then a huff of consideration.

 

“It’s… been a while since I did this for anyone. -Usually I just do me. It would um, probably be better if I could hold your head from the back. I’m gonna go slow, so if you get a crick in your neck let me know and we’ll stop a sec until it goes away, ok?”

 

 

Aware of the foam on his lip (and not really inclined to see what it tastes like) he quietly murmurs: “Alright.”

 

 

Then Gladio’s hand curls around the base of his skull, fingers working through his hair and thumb under his ear; guiding his face up so that he can work. At first he doesn’t feel the scrape of the razor but once he does it’s _all he can feel_. Every so often, the Shield will pause and he’ll hear a wet slap as the flicks the foam into the sink. He takes special care around his scars, especially the one on his lip. Though his neck is stretched at an awkward angle the entire ordeal turns out to be the single most relaxing experience he’s ever had in his entire life.

 

 

He doesn’t realize its over until he feels his face daubed with a hot, damp towel. A hand turns his head from side to side, checking for rough patches.

 

 

“Not bad. You almost look decent. -Want me to do your hair next? Should do it while it’s still wet.”

 

 

Ignis is temporarily struck dumb by the other man’s grasp of the finer points of cosmetology. He had learned to cut hair as part of his Chamberlain duties, but he’d never learned how to give an old-fashioned shave. Instead, he’d had a very nice model of trimmer picked out for when the time came for Noctis, similar to his own so he could demonstrate how to use it.

 

 

Still blissed out from having what was essentially an instrument of death scraped all over his face; his answer is predictably off-topic3.

 

 

“My Lord Amicitia. Where have you been my whole life?”

 

 

That earns him a low chuckle as Gladio runs a hand over the criminally long strands plastered to his head.

 

“Is that a yes?”

 

 

He decides to forego pretending he doesn’t want Gladio’s hands wherever he deigns to put them.

 

“That is a _Hell yes_. –Provided you don’t get _catty_.”

 

 

This earns a full-body laugh from the other man, who pulls open a drawer and begins to rummage. Realizing this will likely be the highlight of his day, he closes his eyes and tries to hold onto the pleasant tingling in his spine. To draw himself into the deep-seated contentment brought by this simple contact.

 

 

And for a few blessed moments, he doesn’t think about the yawning emptiness within.

 

 

1Cor is not homophobic. It’s just that the sight of those two gives him a raging case of the Feels.

 

2A Torama, for those who FFXV is their first Final Fantasy game, is basically a type of Coeurl. Usually with only a palette swap from traditional Coeurls, in games where they exist together (usually it’s one or the other). I’m basing this creature off the FFXIV version that looks more like a panther, because I HATE coeurls in FFXV. I died to them so much in Comrades. T_T

 

3ASMR is a thing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took so long because of Aranea. I haven't really gotten to any good parts with her in it yet (in-game) so I had to wing it in regards to her character. It's a long chapter tho, so I hope that makes up for it.
> 
> WARNING: There is some disturbing imagery in this chapter. Nothing super graphic but not sugar coated either. Just FYI

Lestallum looks a little better every time she sees it.

 

 

A little cleaner. A little less pieced-together. There’s no more gutted, rusting cars all over the place. No more boarded-up windows. Businesses are open and people are milling about; she can even hear laughter over the din of the crowd.

 

 

She wonders if the ‘City of Light’ will become the new Capitol. It seems fitting since the King of Light rests his head here. Laid in a sarcophagus of cold steel and innocuously tucked away in a place she’s not supposed to know about.

 

 

Aranea may be a mercenary by trade but she makes it her business to know things. And business is _good_.

 

 

Certainly there’s money to be made in salvage and soldiering. And hunting too, if one is so inclined. However information will forever be coin of the realm, and she has made a habit of keeping an ear to the ground even as she calls the skies her home.

 

 

It is by the grace of this long-standing practice that she learned of the Succession Documents. Their existence wasn’t exactly a _secret_ , as commoner and Crownsguard alike spoke openly of them. It was the nature of their discovery that was shrouded in mystery; whispers of lingering magic from the previous king, a broken seal and the sudden appearance of the documents in the ruins of King Regis’ study.

 

 

Like a tabloid headline (the kind that had been illegal in Gralea for ages), the story shifted depending on who you spoke to. Some claimed the papers were a fabrication to facilitate the restoration of the Monarchy, while others compared them to ordained writ spoken from the gods themselves.

 

 

Either way, people were taking them seriously, as well they should.

 

 

What was more closely-guarded was _who_ the papers named as Successor, though that had been fairly obvious when shortly after their finding, the whole of Lucis went on alert as to the whereabouts of the King’s missing retainer; Ignis Scientia. -A man who’s been presumed dead for nearly two years.

 

 

There has been no Official Statement issued, but when Cor Leonis puts in a high-priority request for the transport of passengers to Crown City, she immediately volunteers—for a price, of course.

 

 

She looks to her companion who is nearly vibrating with suppressed anxiety. He’s either glued to his phone, staring at the single photo he’d been sent by Gladio’s sister or craning his neck looking for a glimpse of his estranged comrade. It’s a marked improvement over ghosting around the ship, sometimes going weeks without saying a full sentence to anyone. But still a far cry from the person she’d met on the icy fields of Niflheim.

 

 

She’s fairly certain this quiet version is the real Prompto.

 

 

The proof is that his silence is neither sad nor angry, but comfortable. Lived-in. She had chalked it up to grief when she’d first taken him on, but as the time he spent crying quietly in quarters ebbed; his current state became the norm. He’s not a social creature but also not _anti-social_ —he can hold a conversation though you’ll never see him start one. And he’s a good worker; even making a few improvements in the field of tech repair that have been adopted as the new standard. -At least among her own.

 

 

Overall, he’s proved to be an asset, which makes the fact that she’s seriously considering kicking him off her ship all the more disappointing.

 

 

It’s not that she fears him becoming another Besithia. She knows what he is, or rather, what he almost was. And while the guy’s good with electronics and understands programming better than some of her engineers, he’s no genius. By his own words, he just wants to be _useful_. And he is, it’s just that…

 

 

There are currently seven small children aboard. All rescues from various cloning facilities. All almost exclusively cared for by _him_ or some other unlucky crew member when Prompto cannot.

 

 

Aranea may have her fingers in many pots, but Daycare is not one of them.

 

 

Still, having heard the blond barter away a month’s worth of his take just so he could have the time to _be here_ did not sit well with her. She was no bleeding heart but since joining her crew, Prompto has worked tirelessly without complaint and in turn asked for _nothing_. Just rations to feed himself and now the little ones. And this.

 

 

“You know, you could probably go to the apartment. I’m fairly certain you’re the exception to the rule.”

 

 

The blond head looks up from its vigil. He gives her a familiar self-depreciating smile.

 

 

“Um. I’m pretty sure my setting with Cor is ‘Barely Tolerates.’ And anyway I don’t like.. want to crowd him or anything. -Iris said he was pretty out of it when they found him.”

 

 

She frowns slightly. “Still no word from Gladio?”

 

 

Prompto swallows thickly, like there’s something stuck in his throat.

 

 

“No. -I.. I don’t really expect anything.”

 

 

She sighs. Aranea can only hope that the first thing Scientia does when the three of them are reunited is bash the other two’s heads together. Repeatedly. Gladiolus may be a poor excuse for a boyfriend, but he is loyal to a fault. Whatever this is between the two of them likely has nothing to do with any real enmity—just typical male avoidance.

 

 

She is thankfully spared from offering empty platitudes when there’s a shifting in the crowd. Prompto cranes his head around, looking for the source.

 

 

Walking towards them is a familiar figure. She hears a quick intake of breath beside her before it just as quickly sighs out. It’s Gladio. The sight of him causes a familiar tightening in her belly. They haven’t been a thing in years; losing Scientia had been the last nail in the coffin built by his King’s demise, but they never officially ended it.

 

 

It’s too bad that he’s back to a full-time job. She certainly wouldn’t mind… reconnecting.

 

 

A few steps behind him is a small entourage. She doesn’t pick out the former Chamberlain right away; his hair is down and he wears no glasses to hide his injury. But he still fills out a suit like a fashion model, all clean lines and sharp angles. Now that she’s singled him out, she sees the other notables around him. Cor, Iris, the Hester boy, Libertus, Dave—she thinks maybe Monica and Ackers too.

 

 

The crème de la crème of what’s left of old Lucis surround him; some speaking to him directly while others just follow along as they talk amongst themselves.

 

 

Gladio spots the two of them and, after glancing back at the group which has paused as others seek a word from the new celebrity, breaks away to meet them. While he’s likely on duty, his charge is surrounded by trained warriors and hunters. And more importantly, _friends_.

 

 

She pities the fool that so much as _sneezes_ in his direction.

 

 

As he approaches, she can feel Prompto bracing himself. Which is absurd. Aranea can’t tell if he’s spotted Scientia yet, but she’s not about to let some ridiculous manly pique stop her from talking to anyone. Especially to six-feet of leather-clad walking _sex_.

 

 

He has a somber face when he reaches them, but his greeting is affable enough.

 

 

“Hey. How’s it going?”

 

 

The welcome was aimed at her but he’s looking at Prompto who is in turn, looking at the ground. The urge to kick the slender man is strong but there’s no telling how Gladio will react. She’s heard some disturbing rumors in that vein and she has no intention of testing their validity.

 

 

“Mmm. The going is good, but it could be better…”

 

 

Her hands flex at the thought of being close enough to touch the perfection that is his body. But Gladio doesn’t rise to the bait. He’s never been a fan of public displays of affection and more so, he’s working. Even if the job is basically taking care of itself.

 

 

Still, a hug for the old flame would have been nice.

 

 

 

“Prom.”

 

 

Blue eyes flick up for a second before resting back on their shoes.

 

 

“Hey Gladio.”

 

 

 

Pleasantries dispensed, the two lapse into an uncomfortable silence. Aranea doesn’t know the particulars of their parting ways but she remembers Gladio’s voice, rough with pain as he asked her to take him in. To make the offer.

 

 

And so she had.

 

 

Considering she is about to rescind that agreement, her tolerance for this pathetic emotional stand off quickly reaches zero. The kid deserves a little happiness before she gives him the boot, and she aims to make that happen. The sooner the better.

 

 

She grabs Prompto by the ear, who immediately begins to squirm and Gladio by the belt-loop. Her glare brooks no argument.

 

 

“I don’t know what crawled up your collective asses and _died_ , but we’re getting this show on the road. And don’t even _think_ of becoming an immovable statue, Gladiolus, or I’m calling your _sister_.”

 

 

That is a real threat considering Iris is only a few feet away along with the rest of the people that matter, and yes she _is_ petty enough to cause a scene. It might even go down in the history books.

 

 

The Shield gives her an odd look but allows himself to be tugged along. Prompto, who has no choice if he wants to keep his ear intact, follows; still twisting and hissing in her grasp. To be fair, she is wearing her gauntlets, so he certainly has the more uncomfortable end of the deal.

 

 

“Hey! Lemme go! I can walk, you know!”

 

 

He’s too busy thrashing to see Scientia’s head snap up like a dog hearing a whistle. It puts his entourage on alert until they see her coming; then it’s all secret smiles and chuffs.

 

 

She gets within steps of them before the former Advisor… _pounces_. There’s no other word for it.

 

 

Prompto makes a noise of surprise as he’s pulled from her grasp into an embrace; at least until he realizes just whose clutches he’s in. She looks away when his shoulders start to shake. Gladio remains next to her, his face soft with fondness. He makes no move to join them.

 

 

She nudges him. He blinks down at her, like he’s just remembering she’s there.

 

 

That stings a little, though If she’s honest with herself, it’s no surprise. They had barely been a fling; as the light waned, they had grasped at each other with more and more fervor. But it had been a closeness borne of desperation more than any real connection. Two people fumbling in the dark.

 

 

Aranea jerks her chin at the other two, who now have broken apart; though not by much. Prompto scrubs a hand over his face even as his breath hitches. Ignis is murmuring softly to him, a look of sweet affection on his face. It’s far more emotion that she remembers him capable of and she can tell by the way everyone around him is suddenly engrossed with other things that they have made the same observation. But are conversely trying not to _see it_.

 

 

Gladio glances back at them then gives her a long look. He doesn’t smile, but he practically _radiates_ contentment.

 

 

Internally, she sighs.

 

She never had a chance.

 

 

*

 

 

He vaults over a storm drain, his feet a blur as he skids down one of the many back alleys of Lestallum. Fueled by anxiety, he pushes his body as far as it can go in his haste to get back to the ship.

 

Four hours. _Four hours._

 

 

He’d made the deal with Mauri for _two_. But then there was Ignis, alive and smiling even! The sight of it was like a slap in the brain. He’d pretty much lost all sense of time after that, stumbling after him like some kind of punch drunk as he made his way through the city.

 

 

He’d even hugged Gladio at some point; mostly because Aranea had shoved him into the awesomeness that was those pecs—but even though he was still a little pissed that he’d had to find out about Iggy through _Iris_ , he doesn’t regret it.

 

 

He forgets what that word even _means_ until he gets the text from Mauri asking where the hell he is.

 

 

Mauri isn’t a bad guy. No one on the crew is really. Aranea doesn’t tolerate badness on her ship, but no one was happy that he had taken in seven kids, none of whom could properly communicate beyond cries and shrieks. And freaking _Six_ , they got into _everything_.

 

 

Which is the real reason he’s hauling ass. Standard protocol when Prompto isn’t around is to keep the door to their quarters (which was really _his_ quarters, but whatever) locked so there would be no more crawlspace incidents. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean they wouldn’t try their best to destroy the room they were in, screaming their lungs out while doing so.

 

 

He vibrates with barely checked impatience as he rides the cable-car to the airship landing.

 

 

Prompto has tried to baby-proof his room, but high shelves don’t really make sense in a ship so he mostly just tries to correct the behavior. It’s hopeless but he tries. Turns out, the cloning facilities were just for making living bodies. Incubators for the scourge. Fodder for the Magitek cores. Functioning humans in the barest sense.

 

 

He’d read that the most significant development for a child was between the ages of two and four. The two girls look to be already passed that, more like five or six. Two of the boys are basically infants and the other three are just about right at it. He knows he’s failing them at a critical juncture in their development, but it’s pretty much all he can do to keep them fed and cleaned and if he’s really lucky— _quiet_.

 

 

He’s given them all names to try and coax some semblance of identity out of them, but it’s pretty much like trying to keep a pack of baby Voretooths—only, well… _Cuter_.

 

 

Sometimes, shamefully, he wonders if they’d have been better off becoming what they were meant to be; even if Magitek was basically taboo nowadays. But he remembers some of the facilities where the automation had failed. Bodies in various stages of growth rotting in their pods, their life-support long gone. He’d wanted to rage at such senseless waste; to hate his creator with a pure, white-hot wrath but in the end he’d just stumbled away, gutted by the hopelessness of it.

 

 

The smallest corpses were seared into his memory. Tiny lives born with no hope at all.

 

 

This more than anything is what keeps him going. Through endless exhaustion and crippling doubt. He’s keenly aware that he could have been any one of these kids. Or any of those blackened husks. But someone had gone in and saved him. Had given him a chance.

 

 

He’d never been one for religion really but how could he look across the distance of where he started to where he was now, of all the things in between, and not feel somehow… blessed.

 

 

The bump of the cable-car reaching its destination shakes him from his ruminations. The ship is going through routine maintenance, as it always does when they have extended down time. The cargo bay is wide open as they take in deliveries before departure and he ducks inside, giving a wave to Nico who’s overseeing the activity.

 

 

As soon as he hits the barracks section, he can hear it.

 

 

Mauri is sort of pacing in the hall; twisting a rag in his hands as he listens to the muted wailing going on in the room. When he sees Prompto he rushes to him; relief and frustration evident on his face.

 

 

“-Look, I’m sorry but I didn’t know what else to do. They don’t listen to us. I was trying to feed them and—”

 

 

Prompto grabs his arms. He’s shaking a little bit. Mauri is young. He was a little kid when the Darkness came and grew up hard in a world where you did what you had to do. He’s the only one of the crew who dares go beyond just _watching_ the kids, and Prompto is so pathetically grateful for it that he takes on the guy’s duties whenever he can.

 

 

He’s never asked why their crying affects him so bad. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know.

 

 

“Hey man, _I’m_ sorry. I kind of… lost track of time but I’m really glad you texted me. They’re a handful, I know.”

 

 

That is a huge understatement but it seems to help Mauri’s distress. Though not totally. The tension in him is still clear as he mumbles another apology.

 

 

Oh. The crying. _Right_.

 

 

He gives the younger man a friendly squeeze and a few more words of assurance before slipping into his room. He’s immediately hit by a symphony of screams. Usually the babies are quiet but they pick up on their sibling’s distress very quickly and all seven throats are currently at maximum output.

 

 

He hefts up one of the girls, stepping carefully over a large smear of oatmeal; nudging the bowls and utensils out his path with his foot. He bounces her a little and starts to hum. Thankfully, while they can’t really communicate, they’ve pretty much accepted him as pack leader. Once the rest realize he’s there, they toddle over and he sits down on the bed so they can all have access.

 

 

He pets their hair and talks quietly to them as they smother their sniffles into his coveralls. He gets up only to grab the boys from their crib and he tucks everyone around him. They settle almost immediately, which pretty much _never_ happens but judging by the drying clumps of food, they’d been at it for at least an hour—probably longer. Which would exhaust a fully-grown adult, let alone a child.

 

 

He hums to them a little more as he shifts into a more comfortable position. They all wiggle to accommodate.

 

 

And he’s out between one blink and the next.

 

 

*

 

 

_“We’ve got to get the Emergency Grid up! The floodlights will help make a dent instead of just making us easier targets!”_

_He nods before he realizes Ignis can’t see it._

_While the Glaives were successful in getting power to Insomnia, the city itself is a mess and the lights are about as effective as a candle in the face of a ten-year daemon infestation. The Emergency Grid is more for natural disasters than daemons—but it will serve just as well, assuming it’s still functional._

_“Iggy I’m on it! I’m going to the nerve center!”_

_Gladio yells after him as runs towards the Annex building that the Glaives are using as their Ops._

_“Be careful!”_

_He yells an affirmative as he lets his feet fly. This he can do. He just needs someone to point him in the right direction. Thankfully Ackers is there and knows where to go. They meet minimal resistance as they find the right building and he gets started—everything looks intact but the interface has no power. Easy fix, if a little tedious._

_He’s wrist-deep in wiring when it happens. There’s no windows where he is, but… he can almost feel the world_ sigh _._

_He turns to see if Dustin feels it too, but he’s gone. And… it turns out he doesn’t actually have his hands in anything. He’s staring at a fuse box in what ends up being a restaurant. He shakes his head in confusion until he sees the golden glow of sunlight streaming through the windows out front._

_The Dawn._

_He’s disoriented at first but the daylight makes landmarks an easy spot. The restaurant is less than a block from the Admin Building and he sprints there like he’s never sprinted before. When he gets to the throne room, the doors are wide open and the first thing he sees is Gladio. His relief is immediate but short-lived because there, up on the throne is Noct._

_And it’s apparent by the unnatural slump that he’s not asleep._

_The sight of it hurts so bad he has to turn away. And that’s when he notices something else._

_“Where’s Iggy?”_

_He’s surprised he’s able to croak that out, because seeing his best friend like that has put a knot in his throat that he can’t seem to talk around. Or breathe._

_Gladio turns his head, just enough to show he’s heard. His eyes do not leave the throne._

_“He’s not with you?”_

_Prompto just blinks at him for a second because obviously_ no _. He should be more concerned about that but suddenly there’s a considerable distance between himself and feelings. Shock probably._

_It’s the only excuse he has for actually being_ glad _Ignis is blind, even if it’s only so he can’t see this._

_“He… He needs to be here. -We gotta find him.”_

_Prompto is rooted to the spot, though. Just like Gladio. He only says it because he knows it’d be the first thing Noctis would want if he was, well—_ alive _._

_“I can’t.”_

_The answer is firm. Absolute. He knows, instinctively, that this is the Shield talking. Part of that ingrained sense of duty that Prompto has only recently come to terms with in his own self. But Noctis would always be his friend first, then his King; it’s his own unique addition to their dynamic and they love him for it._

_Gladio seems to remember himself for a minute because he clarifies._

_“I can’t leave him.”_

_He can hear the strain this time. And he gets it. Ignis should be here, but he’s also kind of glad he’s not. Because out of the three of them, he is pretty much the brother Noct never had (but kind-of did) and Prompto’s not sure he can take watching the normally well-collected man fall to pieces._

_In any case, they both know it will only be moments before the Chamberlain realizes what’s happened and makes his way here. They’ve got to deal with this now, or there will be no softening the blow._

_In the silence, he and Gladio share a moment of perfect understanding. The Shield approaches the throne slowly, almost respectfully; picking up Noct with more muscle than he’d normally use in order not to jostle him. The gods have a little mercy at least, because he’s not bloody. It doesn’t even look like he’s_ wounded _._

_Not that it would have mattered. Gladio’s steps never falter, but for his own sake Prompto is pitifully thankful._

_Others have gathered outside the building. It feels a bit like a movie the way everything just kind of stops when Gladio brings him down the steps. People make way as he’s carried to the cool interior of the nerve center; closing ranks behind like a funeral procession._

_They lay him out on a table; on a bed of Glaive coats—his own, one of the first._

_He wants more than anything to just… touch. To pet his hair or squeeze his hand. To say something meaningful even though he can’t hear it. But he knows Noctis would_ hate _that. So he stands vigil; keeping his head turned so his tears fall on his chest and arms instead of on his friend. His King._

_When night comes naturally and there’s still no Ignis, they realize something is very very wrong._

_*_

He drifts back to consciousness at the sound of voices outside his door.

 

 

That’s unusual because everyone on the ship gives his room a wide-berth so as not to set off the kids. Whoever it is doesn’t seem to be concerned about that and he realizes when he hears a familiar posh accent that its passengers, not crew that congregate in the hall.

 

 

The thought of Ignis being right outside makes him sit up, almost losing his grip on the two spots of warmth on his chest. He locks up at just the right moment; silently cursing the fact that he fell asleep with the babies. _Again._

 

The lights are still on, and he makes sure his sudden tensing hasn’t woken anyone. He winces at the voices still carrying on outside which sound unnaturally loud, even muffled as they are through layers of steel. He carefully extricates himself from the tiny dogpile; using pillows and blankets as a substitute for his body. Puts the boys in their crib.

 

 

Aranea must not have warned them about his situation; which is likely going to make things awkward in a minute when he asks them to be more quiet.

 

 

He turns the lights down and flicks on the nightlight. It’s little more than a plastic toy chocobo (that he’s pretty sure was actually for made for dogs) with an LED shoved into it, but considering his own childhood issues with being in the dark he’d made a leap of intuition. So far it hasn’t failed him.

 

 

The talking stops immediately when he opens his door and slips through. As he suspected, Ignis is there, along with Cor and Gladio. The other two are quick to hide behind their respective masks but Gladio doesn’t even bother.

 

 

He looks _pissed_.

 

 

“So, um. Hi. Glad to see everyone. Could we maybe be a little quieter out here? -Aranea told you about what’s going on, yeah?”

 

 

The Shield _sneers_.

 

 

“Oh she told us alright…”

 

 

 

“-Gladio.”

 

 

It’s just his name, spoken softly from the former advisor’s lips, but the reprimand is clear. He exhales like a dragon and stalks off, apparently not trusting his capacity for civility. Prompto feels a dull ache in his chest and rubs at the spot absently.

 

 

Ignis tracks his Shield’s footsteps for a few seconds before turning back to him. He keeps his voice down, as requested.

 

“I can glean from recent events that you and Gladio are on somewhat shaky footing at the moment. I want you to know that his anger just now is not directed at you. I’m not sure it’s truly directed at any one person but if I could take a guess, I’d say the Commodore bears the brunt of it.”

 

 

He frowns at that. What reason would Gladio have to be mad at Aranea? He asks as much. This makes both Ignis and Cor look at him askance.

 

 

“No, really. Like… why is he mad at her? -Is it about the kids? She can’t help the way things are going with them. He’s gotta know that.”

 

 

The only person he’s ever seen get genuinely mad at the woman is Biggs and only because she continuously gives him gray hairs the way she often leaps into the fray—with little to no thought of back-up. Gladio’s anger, on the other hand, is just _baffling_. They hardly know each other as far as he can tell.

 

 

Cor and Ignis share a _Look_ before the Marshal drops a bombshell.

 

 

“So… You’re ok with her kicking you off the boat? We thought maybe you didn’t have any other arrangements—that’s what’s got Gladio in a snit. No one figured she’d be that cold but-“

 

 

Prompto doesn’t hear the rest. He’s seen people talk about the world dropping out from under them but he’s never really experienced it himself until now. That day at the Citadel, when it was all over had been close—but this… This is different.

 

 

This is seven tiny, innocent lives that depend solely on him. And he now has nothing. No shelter, no job. _Nothing_.

 

 

And the sad thing? The absolutely tragic thing is that he gets it. The situation is terrible. The kids basically stay locked up in his room like animals except for when he bathes them—he’s too afraid to take them outside with just himself as supervision. They have zero communication skills and he has neither the time nor the experience to teach them. They desperately need socialization but it’s a ship full of adults who avoid single-digit age groups like it’s the Scourge—except Mauri whose childhood trauma is the only thing keeping it from being a one-man show.

 

 

He knows it’s totally untenable, has known for a while now but it’s all he has. Or well. _Had_.

 

 

Someone is shaking him. It takes him a minute to realize its Cor and to hear what he’s saying over the high-pitched whine in his ears. He also might be hyperventilating a bit. Awesome.

 

 

“-going to be ok. Six, what is fucking _wrong_ with that woman-”

 

 

He blinks because he’s pretty sure he’s never heard Cor swear, nor has the man ever like… grabbed him or expressed concern for him directly. To be fair, the Immortal is usually knee-deep in intrigue at any given moment but it’s weird because it should be awkward and cringe but instead _it’s working_.

 

 

“-Please keep your voice down, Marshal. Obviously she has found in us an opportunity and is taking it with due haste.”

 

 

Ignis lays a hand on his chest and he can feel a cool lick of magic ease some of the tension that has him locked up. He focuses on breathing for a minute nodding his thanks to the Marshal, who releases him. It will be a short reprieve; all too soon the hopelessness of his situation will come crashing down again but for now, he is in good company. The best, actually.

 

 

“Thanks Iggy. Marshal. I’m ok now. -And no. I mean, I knew it was probably going to happen sooner or later but I didn’t know it was going to be like… right now.”

 

 

He feels the icy chill of panic try to creep in.

 

 

“I mean, is it right now? Do I need to start cleaning out? I just got them to go to sleep-“

 

 

 

The hand is back on his chest, just to steady him. There’s no magic this time.

 

 

“No. However I would like you to be ready to disembark once we reach Insomnia. The Commodore is not needlessly cruel; she may have backed us into a corner but I believe she recognizes this is the best chance these children are going to get.”

 

 

And its so true. Even if Insomnia is still in the same state it was when last he saw it, it’ll be better than what he has here—just because of Ignis. Everything else is pretty much just _gravy_.

 

 

The Chamberlain tilts his head slightly to address Cor.

 

 

“Marshal, will you inform Gladio that we will need his assistance with the children when we land? I would also like to discuss your recommendations on housing in the interim, if you have any.”

 

 

“I’m on it.”

 

 

Cor actually gives a formal bow before going off to find the missing Shield. Prompto is still a bit floored by how fast things are going right now but the bow serves to remind him that Ignis is fucking _King_. And he just took on a pack of feral Special Needs kids without batting an eye, because they’re _his_.

 

 

He sighs because he wants glomp the other man SO HARD but he’s not sure if it’s against the law. Which is some bullshit. Seriously, how is this his life?

 

 

“I really want to hug you right now, Iggy, but I kind of just remembered that you’re the King. -What’s a guy got to do to get a special dispensation?”

 

 

The bemused smile is worth all the Hell those kids are going to put them through. Probably. -A good down-payment at least.

 

 

“The Crown recognizes Prompto Argentum as Royal Embracer. He may dispense his duties, effective immediately.”

 

 

That actually makes him giggle, which hasn’t happened in forever. He wastes no time attaching himself to the King like a limpet. Ignis even ups the ante by hugging back, though not as hard as he did out in the street. All in all, it’s a very comfortable thing. -Best Job Ever.

 

 

His smile actually begins to hurt because it’s muscles that haven’t been used in so long.

 

 

“Hey, you think I can get away with this with Gladio? -Or Cor?” Cor had been pretty nice to him and Prompto is still riding a relief-high. He feels invincible.

 

 

Ignis ‘hmm’s into his hair.

 

 

“Best wait until I’m officially sworn for the Marshal. -Gladio will probably let you do it so long as you don’t sneak up on him. You know how that goes.”

 

 

They stay that way longer than is probably normal but neither of them can be bothered to care. It’s only when he hears the tell-tale sound of whimpering from his room that he steps back. As they part, he can see that Ignis has heard it too.

 

 

“Shall we see to the littles, then?”

 

 

“Yeah. We better.”

 

 

This is probably going to be rough but for the first time ever, he opens the door with a sense of excitement rather than dread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah. I always assumed Aranea was Gladio's secret GF (the one he mentions at the end). I just can't see him with some random chick. *shrugs*


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I struggled to make this chapter longer but without adding meaningless filler, well... It is what it is. Enjoy!

Ignis’ Ascension is small for a public event.

 

 

Attendance and media coverage is limited, due to the general state of things but the word gets out that Lucis once again has a Monarch and his name is Ignis Scientia; former Hand of the King, now just _King_ —long may he reign. Cor had informed him, back in Lestallum, that his rule was not a Regency. -By King Regis’ own hand, he had been marked for true succession; even over possible candidates associated by marriage or the like.

 

 

While he trusts the Marshal implicitly, he sends for the documents. He can’t read them but holding them to his face he can smell the faint traces of the elder sovereign’s cologne. The simple but expensive cream he used for his hands.

 

 

They had been perfectly preserved in his Armiger; conjured by accident even as they were obviously meant to be found. He treasures them as a last precious link to the man that had ruled with nobility and compassion. A man who calmly allowed himself to be woven into the fabric of history, so that others might write it anew.

 

 

Ignis doesn’t completely understand why he has been bestowed the King’s blessing, but he will honor it. To the full extent of his abilities.

 

 

It is tradition to hold the ceremony in the Throne Room, but he refuses. Though it has been recently renovated, it retains the oppressive stillness of a tomb and Ignis is not quite ready to tackle that particular issue when so many other more pressing matters require his attention. Instead, they hold the rites in the Royal Gardens, in the blessed sun; a silent tribute to the sacrifices made in the fight to restore its light.

 

 

When night falls and the crowds disperse, he is called to perform the other part of the ceremony. The one the public is not permitted to see.

 

 

The Crystal has not been moved since it was returned to Insomnia by the man it had once scorned. He approaches it now, slowly. He cannot see it, save for the light it exudes in the darkened chamber, but he remembers it’s cold brilliance. It’s quiet resonance.

 

 

He stops before it.

 

 

When Noctis had first been introduced to the Crystal on his sixteenth birthday, he’d come back from the experience with occasional visions and the ability to use his Armiger. Ignis knows he is supposed to lay hands on it but the simple truth of the matter is that he is not of Royal blood. His scars, his very _blindness_ is a testament to the fact.

 

 

And while he will wear the mantle in deference to the King who bestowed it upon him, he finds he holds very little value in the opinions of a semi-sentient rock.

 

 

So there will be no bargains. -Once bitten, twice shy after all. He will rebuild Insomnia and restore Eos with no greater power than his own. No visions, no Armiger. No _walls_. In the event the Crystal finds him unworthy, it can choose another to suit its whims. For him, it will change nothing. His course is clear.

 

 

There is a certain satisfaction in walking away.

 

 

While he will protect it as he would any ancient relic of Lucis, that’s all it is to him. A relic. It could not heal the sickness from its Chosen just as it couldn’t restore the life of its Champion. He’ll take whatever residual magic his station is afforded but beyond that, he has no use for it.

 

 

He will put his faith in things that matter. Like _people_.

 

 

*

 

 

 

Mere days after leaving the Crystal untouched, his migraines return with a _vengeance_.

 

 

 

*

 

 

Cor looks down at his phone at the chirp. It’s Libertus. A tiny hand reaches out to grab at the screen and he shifts it before they can connect.

 

 

“Oi. Cut it out.”

 

 

This does not deter the toddler tucked into his arm, who tries again as soon as the notification goes off. The one on his knee looks up at the device, obviously intrigued.

 

 

“-Don’t even think about it.”

 

 

They don’t reach for it but it’s obvious that they’re not following his command; watching as he continues to maneuver it out of his brother’s grasp. Thankfully there’s only two of them. Cor had suggested a Divide-and-Conquer strategy early on, because watching seven kids in anything but a locked, padded room is insanity.

 

Smaller groups, however are manageable and allow the kids to get on a rotation for much needed activities like outdoor time or doctor visits or learning sessions. The latter usually with the King himself.

 

 

He taps the answer button and puts the phone to his ear, much to the displeasure of the small blond octopus in his arms.

 

 

“Leonis.”

 

 

Said octopus makes his displeasure known with an indignant yell. He pulls the phone away as he shushes him, but Libertus hears it anyway.

 

 

“Marshal. -You babysitting?”

 

 

He can hear the smirk but he’s long past getting riled. Cor has worked for four separate Kings now, and it’s pretty much been advanced childcare for the last two. -Besides, the Glaive might think he’s safe because he’s spends most of his time between Lestallum and Galahad, but he’ll be on the roster just as soon as he steps a toe in Crown City. He’s likely already on it, in fact.

 

 

 

“Not anymore than usual. -You got something for me?”

 

 

 

Thankfully the other man is still a professional, and he gets right down to it after the small jest.

 

 

“Well, yes and no. -You remember how you told Dave about the shack the King was living in? We’ll he sent some of his people out to map it, but they said there wasn’t anything there.”

 

 

He bounces his knee a bit for the other brat as a reward. He’s being quiet, even if he’s still eyeing the phone.

 

 

“What do you mean, nothing was there? -Obviously they didn’t go to the right place.”

 

 

Octopus wants in on the bouncing, so he helps them wiggle to his other knee and alternates between the two. This turns out to be great fun—except for his joints, which are going to cry foul later.

 

 

“Yeah, see that’s what I thought too, so Dave says to come out there with him and we follow your directions to the letter—followed your _tracks_ and everything, and there’s really nothing there. -I’m sending you pictures right now.”

 

 

Thankfully the two boys are having too much fun at the moment to pay his phone any mind. He feels a prickling down his spine as he waits on the downloads. It’s only a handful of files and at first glance the landscape is only vaguely familiar. There are pictures of the tree line, the tracks—which have been twice driven over now. Of the general area. One picture stops him and he zooms in for confirmation.

 

 

There’s no building, but he can see where people have waded through the grass and in one the furrows, he sees what looks like… bones.

 

 

“Is that a carcass of some kind?”

 

 

 

He hears the Glaive fumble with his phone a minute.

 

 

“Which one—oh yeah. Dave says it’s a Coeurl. It’s the only thing we found out there other than tracks.”

 

 

 

The prickle becomes a full-blown chill. His legs have long-since stilled, and the kids have fallen silent; picking up on his unease.

 

 

“Not a Torama?”

 

 

Bless Libertus and his complete faith in Cor’s carefully cultivated no-nonsense persona. He doesn’t even question why he’s being asked such an inane thing.

 

 

 

“Er, I don’t know? -Hang on.”

 

 

He hears him yell something; to Dave probably. He rearranges the boys back the way they were; one tucked into his arm and the other on his leg. They’re on a bench out in the Gardens, and the beautiful day is not enough to chase away the sudden apprehension.

 

 

Something strange is going on and no matter how many pieces he holds, he can’t seem to put it all together.

 

 

“Dave says no one has seen a Torama in close to fifty years; at least not in these parts. Figured they went extinct a while back or just got absorbed into the Coeurl population. Plenty of those around.”

 

 

The Glaive pauses, uncertain.

 

 

“You said you saw a live one right? When you were here?”

 

 

 

“Yeah.”

 

 

He can hear Libertus ‘hmmm’ to himself. Octopus tentatively reaches a hand up towards the phone and instead of admonishing him, Cor grabs the offending limb and taps a thumb across the tiny knuckles. The small hand latches on to his just as curiosity gets the better of his brother, who decides climbing Cor like a tree will get him the prize. Before he can be totally incapacitated, he pins the phone between his neck and shoulder while he extricates himself, much to the delight of the boys who shriek as he man-handles them into submission.

 

 

He winces for the sake of his eardrums but at least the air of anxiety is somewhat expelled.

 

 

“I don’t know what to tell you Marshal. I know you all saw _something_ but we checked everywhere and there’s not so much as a sliver of wood or scrap of metal indicating there was ever a building here. –Hell, that carcass had been there for ages. If you want, we can do a sweep—”

 

 

Once upon a time, he’d have sent a horde of operatives to comb the area but resources are already stretched. He can’t justify wasting the effort on something he’s pretty sure no one is going to find.

 

 

“No. It’s done. Tell Dave sorry for wasting his time. We’ll send him something for his trouble.”

 

 

 

The Glaive sounds doubtful.

 

 

“Alright. -You sure you don’t want me to look around a bit more?”

 

 

 

Cor sighs.

 

“I wouldn’t mind it, but you’ve got better things to do than to get involved in… whatever this is. If you _do_ find anything, keep me posted.”

 

 

“Will do. -I’m off then.”

 

 

“Goodbye.”

 

 

He taps the phone off. Now that he’s done with it, the boys lose interest quickly in favor of exploring in the grass. The Marshal lowers the squirming bodies into a safe spot; he’s learned the hard way that plants are new and exciting and something they absolutely want to put into their mouths.

 

 

As he watches them play, he makes a note to request a meeting between himself and the three former members of the King of Light’s retinue. He may not have a clear picture, but they need to be made aware that there is something afoot. -Especially the current King, who seems to be the focus of this last bit.

 

 

He’s missing something and he aims to find it; but four sets of eyes (so to speak) are better than one.

 

 

 

*

 

 

Talcott Hester waits pensively; his hands curled uselessly in his lap as he waits outside the King’s sickroom.

 

 

When Ignis offered him a job as his personal aide he had readily accepted. He’s known for a while, that his calling is to Serve—though there was little cause to do it during the Endless Night. Instead he had done what many had and turned to hunting, though he had taken steps to retain a healthy network of contacts for whatever else might be needed.

 

 

Some of his fondest memories are of traipsing through crumbling ruins with the older man, amazed at his ability to do with elegance what people with sight could only wish.

 

 

He remembers Noctis too. Later, mostly. Their conversation as they drove out of the Quay had been relaxed, familiar. The mutual surprise at how different they both were tempered by the comfort of knowing the difference was mostly skin-deep. He feels blessed to have spent even that short of time with him before… the end.

 

 

He’d wept when the announcement had been made; face buried into his bedding as he hid from the proof. He was expressly forbidden from taking part in the Siege, by pretty much everyone who knew him; and at the time he’d been furious. Now, he supposes he’s grateful; whatever happened that fateful day had made Gladiolus into a stranger, and Prompto into a shadow and the King…

 

 

The King puts on a good front, but he is pretty much a walking _disaster_.

 

 

Which might be a little unfair. Ignis in disaster-mode is most people on a really good day but Talcott knows what to look for. What to listen for. Thankfully having Prompto and Gladio around seem to even him out—Talcott just wishes he wasn’t quite so good at knowing things. It’s hard to remain oblivious when the so-called ‘secret’ affair between your Mentor and your Brother is the _worst kept secret in Lucis_.

 

 

Luckily, he doesn’t do the laundry. He feels a little bad for whoever does, but certainly not enough to step in.

 

 

 

“Oh hello there. -And you would be…?”

 

 

 

He starts a bit, because he didn’t hear anyone approach (in his mind he sees Dave shake his head at his lack of awareness) but its just the attending physician, who’s not even looking at him anymore as he flips through papers on a clipboard.

 

 

“Talcott Hester. Personal Aide to the King.”

 

 

He knows that sounds pretty weak but he is not even close to having enough training to be considered a Chamberlain or Valet—and honestly the King doesn’t need one. Anyone who’s known the man longer than two minutes can attest to that. Still, he’s sitting next to a leather garment bag and satchel because he’s not total trash at this. Everyone knows the first thing they do in a hospital is get you naked. Even if you’re the King.

 

 

“Hmmm. I see. Well, I’m going to assume you have the clearance to discuss his condition. It’s not my job to determine such things but I suppose the King can object if he so desires. -Shall we, then?”

 

 

He motions at the door and Talcott collects his burdens before awkwardly pawing at the latch and entering the suite.

 

 

Thankfully the bulk of the hospitals in Crown City suffered minimal damage. However, the clean out had been gruesome. Many terminal patients could not evacuate and the brave souls who stayed behind for their care, well… Most survived the Occupation, but none had survived the infestation.

 

 

When he finally sees the room’s sole occupant, he breathes a small sigh of relief. Ignis looks way better than he did earlier. When he’d been found passed out in the corridor, he’d been the color of wet paper. He’d also been face down in a puddle of his own vomit, but hopefully he doesn’t remember that part.

 

 

Though he barely moves his head, Talcott can tell the King is awake. He gives a short bow, because even though the other can’t technically see it, he knows if you don’t. -He’s personally been called out on it more than once.

 

 

“Your Majesty. The Doctor is here to see you. -Also, I’ve brought a change of clothes and your overnight bag.”

 

 

As the King murmurs his thanks, he looks around and spies a cabinet that likely serves as a wardrobe and carefully puts everything inside. The Doctor breezes in, stopping next to the bed and it’s only because it takes him all of two seconds to stow everything that he sees what happens next.

 

 

The Doctor begins to exchange the usual pleasantries and Ignis goes completely rigid. Like full-stop. It’s only for a few beats and he almost immediately relaxes to a more natural state, but it does not escape the Doctor’s notice.

 

 

“Is there something the matter, your Majesty? Are you in any pain?”

 

 

Talcott is watching the exchange with interest now, though he keeps his face politely blank. He’s not sure what’s got the King twigged, but he is sure as _hell_ going to find out.

 

 

“Have we met before, Doctor… Mirin, was it?”

 

 

He glances at the man in question. Medical professionals in Insomnia are a rare breed these days—mostly because they have to work for free. This tends to make the ones they _do_ have a bit… eccentric.

 

Doctor Mirin is no exception. While he’s dressed in fresh charcoal scrubs and a flowing white lab coat, he is too tall and broad for it to be convincing. His long, slightly-curling hair is swept up in a messy tail, secured via _pencil_ and he has a prominent five-o-clock shadow that while flattering, gives him the overall mien of someone who doesn’t invest too much into personal grooming.

 

 

He looks thoughtful for a moment.

 

 

“While I admit to knowing who you were before your Ascension your Majesty, I’m afraid it’s all information heard in passing. I’ve only recently come to Insomnia you see and I’m certain if we had crossed paths before now, we would each have a clear recollection of it, yes?”

 

 

Which is not a _no_. He knows the King has picked up on that too, but after a polite pause they go back to discussing his health. He listens with half an ear and instead looks at body language. Overall carriage. Gestures. Doctor Mirin is very relaxed for someone meeting the King for the first time. Practically _insolent_.

 

 

Duties dispensed, he eventually ambles away, after giving the convalescent King a careless attempt at a bow. A few moments of silence pass, head cocked to the side listening for retreating footsteps before Ignis speaks.

 

 

“I don’t suppose if I told you to disregard the last few minutes that you would honor that request.”

 

 

 

Talcott considers it. But really, by the defeated tone, the King already knows better.

 

 

“I would be honored you requested it, Majesty.”

 

 

 

There is a disbelieving chuff from the bed.

 

“I could make it an order.”

 

 

 

It’s probably a good thing the King can’t see his face right now because that’s an empty threat and they both know it. Still, he nods obediently because to do anything less would be disrespectful (plus the man totally knows if you don’t—it’s uncanny).

 

 

“That is his Majesty’s indulgence. However, you _could_ save us both the trouble and tell me what’s going on, since you obviously know that guy and I’m pretty sure he knows you back.”

 

 

At this, the King frowns. Talcott won’t press but if Ignis truly believes the situation might be dangerous enough that he should keep his nose out of it, then it’s certainly worth mentioning to Cor at least. And maybe Dustin or Monica or any Crownsguard with clearance who isn’t busy right now.

 

 

Not Gladio though. -At least not until they determine if the man’s a threat or not because that could end very badly if it turns out to be a mistake.

 

 

 

“I’m not entirely sure there’s anything to tell you. His voice sounded familiar to me, but as to whom it resembled well… It must be a coincidence because the alternative is just not possible.”

 

 

Well. He expected far more prevarication than that. -Time to go for broke.

 

 

“I see. And who did it remind you of?”

 

 

 

The King takes a moment to weigh his words and the sudden seriousness is enough to make his skin prickle with anxiety. Ignis is good at many things, almost everything in fact, but deception is not one of them. At least to those that know him well. A lie of omission may still be a lie, but his body betrayed him. His reaction is all the truth Talcott needs.

 

 

 

When he responds, there is an air of finality to his words.

 

 

“He reminded me… of a man of no consequence.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, show of hands, who straight up kidnapped Iris when they got access to her in the game and took her to dungeons and hunts? *Raises Hand* Also, the banter when it's just the three of them (sans Gladio) is so funny. Why does everyone hate this game?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out a little bit more about what was ailing Gladio in the beginning of the story, while Ignis and the Crystal... sort out their differences. Yeah.

“Whoa there, big guy…”

 

 

Gladio tries to shake off his disorientation but as soon as he sits up, the vertigo puts him right back down. Still, he’s not so out of it that he doesn’t recognize the voice and the slim hands that are trying to prop him up.

 

 

“Prompto?”

 

 

He squints at the light. Thankfully its not the bright halogens of the training center, but even the muted sconce lights of the Family Wing are enough to make him wince.

 

“Yeah, its me. -So I’m like two second away from calling Iggy or Cor. Your choice, also is anything broken? -Oh man, am I even supposed to be moving you right now?”

 

 

Gladio grunts as he turns his body to face the floor and wedges himself up on one arm. Insomnia doesn’t have reliable emergency services yet. What medical staff they have is pretty much on call 24/7 and everyone is required to log regular check-ins, no matter their job or station. It’s far from a perfect system, but he’s never been more grateful for it until now.

 

 

“Call Cor. And no, nothing’s broken—unless you count my damn _head_.”

 

 

Prompto is already dialing, the sound of his key tones abnormally loud to his throbbing senses. He does some breathing exercises to help chase away the lingering disorientation; his body still tingling and weak.

 

 

He’d thought this was over. Once Ignis told them about his migraines he figured it was some sort of echo from the Crystal. A Calling. They hadn’t been able to research it further, but in the weeks that came after Ignis had been found there had been no more incidents—for either of them.

 

 

But only days after his Ascension the King had passed out right in the hall, felled by the intensity of his affliction. And now here he was, nearly the same, taken out by a ringing that had had come to call the ‘Bells.’ Only this time it had been so powerful it had been like he’d been standing inside the giant shell of one as it tolled.

 

 

His entire body still resonates with the force of it. He’s never felt this shaky and weak before. Not even after his battle with the First Shield—and he’d nearly died then.

 

 

“Hey.”

 

 

Prompto is crouched beside him. Gladio is not exactly pleased to be seen like this but he can’t think of anyone else he’d rather have with him right now.

 

 

“-He answered on like, the _first ring_. What does that guy even do? Is he like.. a god or something?”

 

 

He doesn’t know how to explain that the Marshal is pretty much the pillar holding up civilization as they know it without it sounding like hero worship. Not that the man doesn’t deserve it. He just _hates_ it.

 

 

Cor is already a legend but if you so much as mention his many exploits (without large amounts of alcohol), he gets downright _surly_.

 

 

“Yeah. Where do you think he got the nickname? Did he give you an—Oh. Hi.”

 

 

Tiny white slippers appear in his field of vision, then a frilly pink nightgown and finally a gold plait as one of the girls crouches down next to him. A small hand slowly reaches out to pat his head. Gladio endures the treatment with an amused huff. Having mostly raised his kid sister, he doesn’t mind so much his turn on the roster. He actually kind of likes caring for the brats, though he’ll never admit it. -He’s got a rep to maintain (even if Iris ruined it years ago).

 

 

“Ah hah. Yeah. Midnight potty breaks. Get some. -You having quality time with Uncle Gladdy, Silva?”

 

 

She flicks her eyes over to Prompto, pausing her ministrations to make a gesture. They can’t properly talk yet but they’ve been taught very basic signs for their immediate needs. Everyone who watches them has had to learn them too. The sign she’s making now means ‘hurt.’

 

“Awww. Uncle Gladdy’s not hurt. He just um… can’t move too good right now.”

 

 

Prompto makes the sign for ‘safe.’ Gladio would do the same except he’s barely holding himself up as it is. He hears movement behind them and suddenly Talcott is there, yawing and scrubbing a hand through his hair.

 

 

“So I heard there’s some sort of emergency. -I’m on kid duty. Cor says he wants to talk to you three once he gets Gladio into the King’s chambers.” He knows the exact moment the younger man regains enough awareness to see his situation. “-Oh my god, that is so adorbs.”

 

 

Gladiolus decides to put a stop to this before it can start.

 

 

“I swear if I so much as hear a shutter, I am breaking a phone.”

 

 

 

Prompto scoffs.

 

 

“Please, I’ve had mine on silent for _ages_. I got so much dirt on all of youse it’s not even funny. -Except some of it sooo _is_.”

 

 

The Shield doesn’t doubt it. However he’s also not really concerned. Mostly because Prompto isn’t the type and a healthy respect/fear of Ignis effectively stops any real inclination to _become_ the type.

 

 

“I have two words for you, Argentum: _middle school_.”

 

 

-Also, there’s the Marshal to consider.

 

 

 

Prompto sputters and he cranes his neck up to see Cor stride up to them, completely official in drawstring sleep-pants and a faded Altissa Beach t-shirt that’s looks like it might be older than anyone here. He peers down at Gladio with a frown but quickly schools his expression as to not send the wrong signal to his tiny erstwhile caretaker.

 

 

“Hester, escort the Princess back to her room please.” The ‘like I asked’ goes unsaid but is heard nonetheless.

 

 

Obviously too tired to really consider his own pride, Talcott kneels in front of the girl in a very convincing approximation of a bow fit for Lucian Royalty.

 

 

“Come away with me, Princess. Big Brother Talcott will protect you.” He turns to Gladio and he’s mildly impressed that the smirk only reaches his eyes. _Brat_. “Your Uncle Gladio is in good hands.”

 

 

She looks at Prompto who pats the kneeling man’s shoulder and signs ‘safe.’ Talcott holds his arms open and after a final pet, she leaves her charge in favor of her human carriage. She stares at them from over his shoulder as he walks them back to the Nursery, Prompto waving cheerfully as they disappear around the corner.

 

 

Gladio can feel it when the attention falls on him.

 

 

“Can you stand?”

 

 

This from Cor. He takes stock of himself. He can probably stand if he takes an embarrassingly long time and uses the wall as a brace. However the sooner he can get to Ignis and their bed the better, so he says:

 

 

“No. But once I’m up I can probably stay up.”

 

 

 

He hears the older man grunt in affirmation.

 

 

“Alright, you heard him. -Get his other side.”

 

 

 

Prompto might be small and gangly, but what muscle he has is solid and together they hoist him up. He sways a bit once he’s upright but it passes and he’s able to walk with their aid. He’d been on the way back to their rooms (technically the King’s; he hasn’t slept in his own quarters since they came back from Lestallum) after some late-night training when the episode hit.

 

 

They get to the door, and Cor checks his phone.

 

 

“I texted him before I came to get you, but he hasn’t answered.”

 

 

 

This makes something in him prickle. If Ignis had heard the notification, there’s no way he would have waited for them. He’d have probably come right on Talcott’s heels since their rooms are next to each other. It’s not even 1 am. There’s _no way_ the former advisor is asleep. Unless…

 

 

Unless he had an ‘episode’ too.

 

 

“It’s fine. Just open it.”

 

 

 

Cor must hear the urgency, because he doesn’t hesitate to swipe his skeleton key. Sure enough, there’s lights on in the kitchenette and paperwork on the table. They lower him on to the couch, and Cor does a sweep—calling out before he enters each room. Prompto plops down next to him, his eyes flitting here and there before landing on Gladio.

 

 

“So um. Do you do this a lot? -Pass out, I mean. Everyone seems kinda not surprised.”

 

 

They can hear it when Cor starts looking under furniture, moving things around. Now that he’s not quite so out of it he sees Prompto’s concern. He put up a good front for the kid’s sake but now that he doesn’t have to, its obvious finding him that way gave him a pretty big scare.

 

 

He’s not sure what to tell him. Regaling him with tales of waking up, half-under a chair in Iris’ kitchen or being poked awake by Talcott; face down in a truck bed full of dead tree limbs probably isn’t going to ease his anxiety. Cor’s seen the worst of it—he’s the only one that knows about the other part. The part that isn’t just him at full burn-out.

 

 

“Until recently, I pretty much worked until I dropped. It was the only way I could sleep, if you could call it that. So yeah. I kind of earned a rep for passing out in weird places. -Believe me, the Family Wing isn’t even in the Top 10.”

 

 

 

His use of past-tense does not go unnoticed. Thankfully Cor reappears looking slightly disheveled; his search obviously fruitless. This puts their focus back where it should be.

 

 

“He’s not here. Any idea where he might be? He wouldn’t be in your rooms, right?”

 

 

 

Gladio goes to shake his head, feels the twinge and thinks better of it.

 

 

“No. We moved most of my stuff out of it a while back so there’s no reason he’d be in there.”

 

 

He glances up at the kitchen table. Ignis doing paperwork long into the night is a fairly normal occurrence and it looks like he’d been doing that up to a point. The Marshal follows his line of sight and goes to investigate.

 

 

He picks up the coffee mug. Sniffs the contents.

 

 

“This is still warm, so I’m not putting the Citadel on lockdown yet. But for my peace of mind, we’re finding the King in the next 30 minutes. -Argentum, you install that app I sent you?”

 

 

Prompto obediently palms his phone.

 

“Oh um. Yeah. Right after you sent it actually.”

 

 

“Good. Open it and follow me.” He throws a familiar black square onto the cushion next to Gladio. “When you get your bearings, go check on Talcott and wait there until I contact you. -I’ve already got the app going on your phone. No matter what, you don’t move until I say, understood.”

 

 

Gladio frowns. He knows he’s been a bit of a loose cannon but he’s the Shield. Not only is it his job, it’s also Ignis. He’d give his life for him, king or no.

 

 

The Marshal is having none of it though, and after a brief stare down he grudgingly gives his affirmative.

 

 

They leave and he concentrates on chasing the last of the aftershocks from his body. While the weakness will pass, the growing sense of dread is harder to shake off. This feels too much like before, when Ignis disappeared with no rhyme or reason—right from under their noses. The thought makes him lose his concentration and he has to start his breathing exercise again.

 

 

This time though, he’s not alone. He has to trust that it will be enough.

 

 

He doesn’t let panic disrupt him again. He is the Shield; that which stays the blade. Once, he faltered. Failed. But never again.

 

 

 

Not even Fate will pass his guard this time.

 

 

*

 

 

He has to hurry.

 

 

While his anger burns like the sun, it is fleeting. Slow to rile. He is a creature of logic after all; of strategy. Too much time to think on his actions and he’ll pick apart his own plan. Content himself to wait. To gather more data. It’s his very _nature_ , and to rail against it takes a considerable amount of outside influence. Enough to push him far beyond his hard-won endurance.

 

 

Ignis holds the white-hot rage to his chest like a babe; protects it with the same careless altruism that had once won him the gift of the Lucii’s power—if only for a short time.

 

 

He grips the wooden handle so hard he can hear his own flesh creak around it. But this. _This_ is an affront and one he will no longer suffer to go on. Tonight, the Crystal was not content to split apart his brain with its call. Instead it sought to sunder his heart, his very _soul_.

 

 

It filled his head with visions of Noct, smiling softly as he held a dark-haired child up for him to hold. There was the bright tinkle of Lunafreya’s laugher as she led a tiny, white-haired girl through a garden of blue blossoms. Dreams of their precious children, their happiness. And he was there to witness, with eyes that didn’t dare blink from the joy of it.

 

 

In the first few moments of waking, that warm contentment had cradled him. Then came realization. And once more he was hollowed out. Gutted by a beautiful lie of a future that would never be.

 

 

 _No more_. No more would he wake, wrung out and weeping. No more would he brought low by a cold, unfeeling, unmerciful _thing_.

 

 

He knows it’s a fool’s errand. He has only a sledge hammer; taken from one of Insomnia’s many construction sites, and an incandescent wrath to power it. The Crystal has survived two millennia, perhaps even longer. He has no real faith that his anger and crude blunt instrument will do much if any actual damage, but the act itself will be cathartic if nothing else.

 

 

He wasted too much time finding a suitable tool to fit his needs. Surely Gladio has discovered him missing. He left his phone at the site at which he took the hammer, aware that it will be used to track him. It will buy him a little time, but likely not enough.

 

 

Ignis wonders if his Shield will be disappointed in him. If they all will. Perhaps he’ll lose the Throne.

 

 

He can’t find it in him to care. It has come down to _it_ or _him_. The Crystal has made it clear that if it can’t have his allegiance, then it will take everything else in exchange. His body. His sanity. His very _self._

 

 

It’s been a long time since he’s used his senses to their fullest extent. As he approaches the chamber that houses the Crystal he stretches them out once more. There are no cameras or surveillance here. The magic does not allow it. But even the King would rouse suspicion at this time of night, especially with an obvious tool of destruction at his side.

 

 

The air in the room is heavy, as though the stone recognizes the weight of its own demise.

 

 

He circles it a few times, to judge the distance. The air around him swirls in jets and eddies. He offers no words, spiteful or no. It’s just a _thing_. It knows nothing of mercy or kindness, it feels no pain. It is merely a vessel. One that requires a heavy price to tap.

 

 

He holds in his mind the sight of Regis. Gentle and wise. Every inch a King even as the price of the Wall withered him. Says a silent prayer; asking forgiveness.

 

 

“Ignis.”

 

He hasn’t even swung; he’s just barely begun to lift the hammer. The voice matches the image in his head so completely that he freezes from the shock.

 

 

“My boy, what are you doing?”

 

 

There’s no ethereal quality to the voice. No magical timbre or arcane echo. It’s as if the King is right there, getting his usual update on Noctis as he had every week since Ignis was six.

 

 

He grits his teeth. It just an illusion from the Crystal. To stop him. He mustn’t allow this to stay his hand. He is the King now. Regis is _dead_. They found him in a mass grave along with Clarus and the rest of the Citadel staff that died that day. He was identified by his clothing; finely made, it was mostly intact even after 10 years of rot.

 

 

Ignis has never been so glad of his blindness. His memories of Regis will remain as man and not a piteously debased corpse.

 

 

A cool, elegant hand closes around his wrist and he nearly drops the hammer.

 

 

“Ignis. What is the meaning of this?”

 

 

 

He can feel his face heat through the cold veil of shock. Chastised by even a simulacrum of Regis and he’s flushing like a disobedient child. He owes this thing no words. It is merely part of the Crystal’s defense; its deconstruction of Ignis. To needle a known weakness in hopes of striking a critical blow.

 

 

He takes in a thready breath and hefts the hammer. The hand on his wrists slackens but does not leave.

 

 

The Crystal decides to change tactics.

 

 

“Ignis. My child, what has happened? Please speak to me.”

 

 

The voice is low. Sincere. He is reminded of the countless times the King had used that same soft, almost pleading tone. He could always tell when Ignis was running on empty, when the strain was getting to him. To the tune of that voice, he had shared his burdens with a man that had so many already. Because he had _asked_ for them. And who was he to deny the King anything? Even his mundane daily trials.

 

 

He feels something inside ignite. How dare the Crystal use the voice, the touch of a man he honored not just as a Sovereign but as _family_ for something so trite as coercion. Revenge.

 

 

Ignoring the shackle of the dead king’s hand, he swings the hammer into an arc--

 

 

“What manner of shade is this?”

 

 

\--and keeps it there, the feel of Regis’ hand dissolving into mist and recognition of the new voice both staying his hand for the sake of his own defense.

 

 

He can hear the heavy tread as it makes a slow circuit around himself and the Crystal. Just out of striking range. He’d second-guessed himself since his time in the other man’s care but there can be no mistaking his identity now.

 

 

“Interesting. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen the Crystal do anything in its own defense and I threatened it plenty during our time here, together. I even made a sort of game out of it. -Dreadfully boring of course, but it helped pass the time.”

 

 

He stops with the stone in question between them. A wise, if oddly cautious choice.

 

 

“Or perhaps it is not in its own defense that it conjures such painful ghosts but rather, as a means to another, more nefarious end?”

 

 

Ignis doesn’t rise to the bait. He imagines he doesn’t look too intimidating at the moment, even with the heavy weapon poised to strike. He’s in slippers and sleep pants. He’s not even wearing a _shirt_ , having caught Gladio’s allergy to them when in the privacy of their rooms.

 

 

He is King, however. Something the man before him never was—however deserved at the time.

 

 

 

“ _Nefarious_ is reaching a bit, isn’t it? But then I suppose you would know best in that regard. -Was there a reason for your continued presence, or were you just reminiscing on the things you never had.”

 

 

He knows he should be more concerned with riling the other man but honestly, he came down here to hit a rock as hard as humanly possible. Barring that, the Accursed’s tattered pride will do. Either one will probably kill him, but he is so past the point of caring right that all he can feel is impatience.

 

 

To his dismay, his well-placed jabs only serve to make the other man laugh. And because the universe hates him, it’s actually a rather nice one.

 

 

“Oh, you wound me. -Or you would have, had I any pride left. But I applaud your efforts. Truly, I do.”

 

 

He actually claps a few times, which makes his remaining eye roll with the useless pageantry of it.

 

 

“To answer your question however, I come because I am summoned. There’s a quiet emergency going on right now.  All very hush. -It seems the King is unaccounted for. And since he is prone to occasional fainting spells, of course Medical must be on alert. And so I am.”

 

 

He punctuates this with an obvious yawn. Alert, _indeed_.

 

 

Ignis frowns.

 

 

“That explains why you’re awake, not why you’re _here_.”

 

 

He hears a light cracking and a high-pitched groan. The other is stretching, like there’s nothing here to be concerned about. Like his arms aren’t betraying the strain of holding this big, bleeding hammer at the ready. He huffs as he lets it fall, the head likely making a dent in the marble floor. His only bit of destruction of the night. Pitiful.

 

 

“I told you, I come because I am _summoned_.”

 

 

He opens his mouth, retort on his tongue until realization hits _._

 

 

 _Oh_.

 

He was summoned. By the fucking _Crystal_.

 

 

Ignis has one precious second of clarity (the theatric stretching a ruse to get him to lower his defenses—he’d been played like a _fiddle_ ) before Ardyn is on him and he is suddenly so tired he can’t hold himself up anymore. Must be magic, he thinks muzzily as the Scourge arranges him in his hold so that he is easier to maneuver.

 

 

He must mumble that aloud because Ardyn, _tsk_ s.

 

 

“I find it sad that no one recognizes magic anymore unless its—what do you call it now? Elemancy? -A watered-down version of what was once a true art. But yes, lets pursue only that which explodes prettily.”

 

 

He makes a noise of disgust before looking down at him with a sardonic smile.

 

 

“Such is the legacy of the Founder King who regularly blew up friend and foe alike. No finesse at all, that one.”

 

 

Distantly he hears a clang. The hammer probably, taken from his nerveless fingers and flung to a safer distance. He realizes that Ardyn is… a fairly large man. Not overly muscled, but _big_. They are nearly the same height but as he is currently the consistency of wet pasta, and far more slender, it feels as though the ancient almost-King is a giant.

 

 

He uses the scant inches of leverage he has over him to shuffle them closer to the Crystal.

 

 

“Would you like a bit of trivia before we both possibly meet a sticky end? Oh, your survival is fairly assured but the Crystal and I, well we don’t get along I’m afraid. As such, I’m not entirely sure I’m meant to survive this next part. -You’ll indulge me, won’t you? There’s a good lad.”

 

 

Ignis had been within swinging distance, so it only takes a few small steps to get close enough to actually touch. Ardyn takes one of his limp hands in his own and simply… holds it by the wrist for a few moments.

 

 

“Did you know that the term which you describe the Kings of eld, the Lucii, is actually derived from a word that has a closer meaning to the truth than the one you use today? In my time, the term was not Lucii, but _L’Cie_ —a title which has no direct translation but essentially means _Servant of the Crystal_.”

 

 

He starts a bit as a low, ground-shaking growl reverberates throughout the chamber. Once it is over, he realizes Ardyn is laughing again. He feels him lift his head and speak to the room at large.

 

 

“Oh my, did I say too much? Forgive an old man his failing memory. He sometimes forgets his _place_.”

 

 

The last part comes out as a hiss; ominous even to his addled brain. Ardyn lifts his captured hand into position but pauses; slack fingers hovering just before the Crystal’s surface. Ignis cannot summon the energy to do more than squirm ineffectually. He’s knows he should be fighting this with everything he has, but he’s just so _tired_.

 

 

“It is time to take your medicine, your Majesty. I do hope it goes down easy.”

 

 

He feels his hand meet the cool, glass-like surface. Feels Ardyn’s larger hand cover his own; splaying his fingers out like a star fish.

 

 

Then the world spirals out from under him and his consciousness along with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this Ardyn has the standard Healer kit from Comrades--along with a slew of staple FF healing/support/time spells (and whatever other badass stuff I think he needs). Also, I am taking his look from the game and not Kingsglaive. The person they used as his model for that is ok, but his design in the game is much more handsome. That is all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is extremely long and plotty. Even though its a bit of an overview. There was going to be hardcore!Gladnis at the end but it ending up going on too long so that will be it's own chapter after this. -In case people want to skip it. (I suck at ending things).

Waking up was disorienting as usual, but the feeling was short-lived because he could _see_.

 

 

Ignis thought he was dreaming at first—a rarity for him, visions from the Crystal aside. However, his dreams tended to be more, well… dreamlike and not the unremarkable state of his bedroom ceiling for half an hour. Or the sound of his lover thumping around in the kitchen (which was alarming enough on its own). He had, of course, dreamed of having his sight returned but that had been so long ago and certainly not this… ordinary. He stares down at his hands to make a point and sees the state of his cuticles.

 

 

And suddenly gloves are not so much an option as a necessity.

 

 

As he rises, he pokes at his memories. He’s understandably distracted by all of the visual data around him, but he’s not so far gone that he doesn’t remember how all of this came to be. The swiftness of his recall is soothing, even if it comes with the unpleasant reminder of how some people seem to have trouble staying dead.

 

 

That more than anything motivates him to start the day. He’s a tiny bit surprised he’s not in a hospital room, but it’s likely just a precaution, considering who had been hiding among the staff. He does some careful stretches and finds that he doesn’t seem to be injured. In fact, beyond drawing a blank between touching the Crystal until now, he seems to have returned from the ordeal in better shape than when he started.

 

 

He would like to take a shower but the situation demands a bit of expediency so he splashes some water on his face and throws on robe; though not without staring a bit. It’s been over 10 years since he’s seen his own reflection, and while he’s never been a creature of vanity, the changes to his own self are worth a look at least.

 

 

He doesn’t linger too long but he notes that while his sight has been restored, he still bears the scars from his use of the ring. Faded by time, they are not nearly as bad as he imagined. He’s thicker in the face and neck; more toned over all, in fact. Living out in the woods had built him up far more than his previous regimen, though he certainly hadn’t slacked off then. He’d just done far less manual labor.

 

 

He blinks at himself then leaves the bathroom; all in all, he’s aged rather well. Surprisingly so. He’s mildly excited to see how the rest have fared, though it is tempered by the knowledge of all they’ve been through. He tells himself not to be surprised if they all look a bit worn. He reasons he doesn’t have more lines on his face for lack of squinting. And smiling. There has been precious little cause of late.

 

 

As he approaches the door to the bedroom, he hears voices. If he closes his eyes he can probably make out who is in the other room, but well… to Hell with _that_.

 

 

He opens the door and walks out into the main area. The voices go quiet.

 

 

Cor is first to rise from his seat and the rest follow. There are more people here than he anticipated, some he’s not immediately familiar with (though he could probably identify them by voice if necessary).

 

 

His ‘Your Majesty’ is choked off when he realizes that both of his eyes are open and taking in the room.

 

 

“Oh my god, we didn’t even think to _check_ …”

 

 

Gladio comes out from the kitchen, wiping his hands with a towel. He pauses upon seeing the cause of the dazed comment (he’s fairly certain the person who uttered it is Talcott but his mind still sees a young boy and not an impeccably dressed young man with his mouth slightly agape).

 

 

His gaze traces every contour of the Shield’s face. Gladiolus is older but still gorgeous, his whiskey eyes filled with warmth. As they stare at one another, the shock quickly turns to joy and the rag is tossed aside before he is scooped into an embrace.

 

 

The deep inhale as he is crushed to the other’s body is instinctual by now, his face tucked into the other man’s neck where the scent of him is strong but his Shield pulls back.

 

 

“Hey, none of that now. Let me see ‘em.”

 

 

He consents to having his face cradled while Gladio gets his fill, his smile sliding into various shades of sappy as he gently traces his fingers around his now-functioning eyes. Someone clears their throat, and they both turn to the sound, the moment broken.

 

 

Cor looks vaguely uncomfortable having to interrupt their Moment, but it serves to remind them that there are others present.

 

 

“Forgive us, your Majesty for invading your space like this but we’re in the middle of an investigation and we needed the most secure area possible. -How are you feeling after your ordeal—beyond the obvious?”

 

 

He smiles. Trust Cor to cut to the chase, no matter the circumstances.

 

 

“Much improved, thank you. -Believe me when I say, it is good to see you all.”

 

 

Those who have shaken off their shock give a chuckle at that. His self-assessment is mostly true. Physically he’s fine—more than even, but the part of him that had been cored out by the Crystal’s vision still _aches_.

 

 

 

There are more pressing matters at present, however. No use dwelling on that which cannot be changed.

 

 

“Would someone mind making introductions? While most of you are familiar, some are less so. -Marshal?”

 

 

Cor nods and points out the various people around the room. Ignis recognizes him, Gladio and Talcott, who he correctly identified at first glance. He’s pleasantly surprised to see Dustin Ackers, whom he’d met a token few times in a professional capacity before Insomnia’s fall and a few intermittent times after. The austere man has borne the stress of his station well. As has Cor, though he’s half convinced the older man’s hated moniker might actually refer to his inability to age past forty, rather than his battlefield prowess.

 

 

That leaves only two others. He doesn’t recognize their names when they are introduced, but he learns their presence is significant.

 

 

“We’re interviewing people connected to Doctor Mirin,” the Immortal explains after taking him aside. “-I don’t know if you were told this directly, but he’s not just a member of Medical. He’s actually Head of the Department.”

 

 

He winces. No one had told him that, but he had already sort of assumed it due to the fact that it was normally the highest-ranking Doctor that attended the King, if the monarch had no personal physician to refer.

 

 

Cor carefully turns his head in the direction of the man Dustin is currently speaking to.

 

 

“That man right there, Curtis Rowle is the reason why. Not long after we started reclaiming the city, there was an incident. A whole building collapsed while we were working on it and three workers were crushed to death. Rowle was fortunate enough to be far enough away to just get pinned. -If you consider having your lower-half mashed to a pulp, ‘fortunate.’”

 

 

The Marshal ducks his head. At first he thinks its to keep the conversation private but he can see the other man’s grimace and he realizes it’s _shame_.

 

 

“You have to understand that we were desperate for medics. When he made himself known to us, he said he could heal, and no one looked too closely at it. We’ve gotten plenty of drifters willing to do just about anything for a decent meal and I figured he was no exception. It had to be magic of some kind for no one to notice but…“

 

 

He lets out a slow breath. The closest thing he gets to sigh.

 

 

“He came with the rest of Medical when the alert went out. Went straight to Rowle and started talking to him. The poor bastard was conscious, even though it was pretty obvious that the only thing keeping him alive was the slab he was pinned under; acting as a tourniquet. As soon as we moved it, it’d be over.”

 

 

Ignis murmurs.

 

 

“But it wasn’t.”

 

 

 

A huff, almost a laugh.

 

 

“No. It wasn’t. By the time I got there, he’d convinced some of the other workers to help him get the slab up. I tried to get them to stop without making it obvious that I thought it was a wasted effort, but those guys worked together. Risked their lives together. Of course they didn’t _listen_.”

 

 

Cor straightens and looks him in the eye. His half a century of experience is a burden not borne lightly.

 

 

“I’ve seen a lot of things. Good and bad. For a split second I saw what was under that slab. It could not support life. But he did something; there was this flash of light. Then he yelled and they dragged a whole man out of a place where there was once just a torso and some viscera.”

 

 

He shakes his head a little at the memory, as if still dazed by it.

 

 

“He walked away from it. I saw the ruin of that man’s body and he just… walked away _._ I told you Rowle was the reason he earned his place but really it was me. I promoted him. On the _spot_.”

 

 

Ignis takes a second to process this; the Marshal’s misplaced guilt.

 

 

He doesn’t know how to ease the older man’s conscious without going into a conversation that would best be had in the presence of their mutual subject matter. He looks over at the other unknown. A young woman whose body language suggests she is on the cusp of a great loss.

 

 

“What about the woman? Cerise. What’s her story?”

 

 

Cor smears a hand over his face and he’s back to business as usual.

 

 

“She’s from Lestallum. Came on as an engineer. There’s a lot of competition over there, as you can imagine. Hard to get work if you’re not the best and brightest—assuming you want something other than low-level Plant wages.”

 

 

She’s not dressed like an Engineer though. Nor does she bear the patina of dirt and sweat that most machinists do. Normally formal dress would be required for an audience with any of the Crownsguard present. Or his Aide. But it’s as if she were pulled directly from her shift (which is very likely, considering the circumstances).

 

 

A shift that doesn’t involve engineering of any kind.

 

 

“I know she doesn’t look it now. Still does some side work in that vein but the good Doctor said she had a bit of an old-school healing gift. -You know how rare magical aptitude is, outside of royalty. We’re talking one hundredth of one percent of the population, last anyone checked.”

 

 

Ah. Ignis can see where the woman’s dejected posture is from. Its likely she feels her career is threatened by this careful investigation of her Patron. Though he can personally promise that if she does really have such a gift, there’s no way she’s getting fired. He’ll have Talcott deliver his reassurance once her interview is done.

 

 

Cor huffs again.

 

 

“I just… can’t get his angle. He’s been here this whole time. He’s _saved lives_ , and is supposedly training up people to save even more. -He gave up without a fight when we found you in the Chamber. If the Crystal hadn’t disrupted whatever he was using to conceal himself, we’d have probably given him a _medal_.”

 

 

He turns away from the rest of the room, shoulders hunched. Ignis can see the tension lining his frame and doesn’t like it one bit. The man is pushing sixty, and for all that time he has upheld and maintained the Kingdom when it’s monarchs, for whatever reason, could not.

 

 

“Marshal, we can discuss this for hours and come up with endless suppositions or we can take it to the source and possibly get some answers. -I know which option _I_ prefer.”

 

 

The prospect of getting to the truth of the matter seems to bolster him.

 

 

“Yes. Of course. If any questioning is going to happen, we better do it soon. He’s basically on House Arrest but considering his magic ability and assuming he still bears the Power of Kings it’s.. more a suggestion than a threat.”

 

 

He is about to respond when Gladio, who has been conspicuously been listening in on their conversation, inserts himself accordingly.

 

 

“If you think for a second that you’re seeing him without _me_ , you’ve obviously hit your head. -Don’t give me that look, you didn’t see them carry you in here. I almost had a fucking heart attack, so _no_. We go together or not at all.”

 

 

Ignis concedes easily; he harbored no illusions of going without his Shield. As he walks back to his bedroom to dress for the day, he sees Gladiolus and Cor locked in a stare down. Normally his money would be on the Marshal, but not today.

 

 

It’s unlikely their war of eyebrows is over Gladio’s duty, but rather something else entirely. He trusts whatever it is will be settled by the time they make their leave.

 

 

He is pleased to discover his normal routine is only slightly faster with his sight restored.

 

 

This makes him absurdly proud.

 

 

*

 

 

Ardyn hums as he dries himself, donning a sinfully soft robe and wrapping his hair before making his way into the living room. He knows, outside the door to his suite, there are no less than four guards who will very politely inquire as to his immediate needs should he stick his head out.

 

 

They will also politely suggest he stay indoors. For… the foreseeable future, should he ask.

 

 

He knows he could leave if he really wants to. Though he no longer has the Scourge at his command, both his healing and his natural magical aptitude have been restored. With dividends, it seems. He was surprised to learn just how potent his magic has become, though he hasn’t had a chance to test it fully.

 

 

For instance, maintaining a constant glamour would have drained him once upon a time. But now he managed with so little effort he often forgot he was doing so.

 

 

There is no point in it now, of course. Nor in leaving. While he could certainly fight his way to freedom, he cannot fight whatever fate has been chosen for him. That, he knows, is inescapable. A self-depreciating smile at the thought that you _can_ teach an old dog new tricks after all.

 

Why, he hadn’t even screamed or cried when he’d found himself alive and whole in the silent remains of Insomnia. Still mostly intact, though its beating heart, its _King_ was gone. All thanks to his efforts.

 

 

He had laughed. Long and hard until his throat could laugh no more.

 

 

He sighs as he sits, still clad in his robe and towel, at the kitchen table where the dome of his meal sits. The cover has kept it warm for him as he enjoyed a hot shower; just one of the many luxuries his talents have afforded him. The food within will be simple fare, but satisfying. Possibly even cooked by the new King himself, who is rumored to spend time in the kitchens; planning and sometimes preparing the meals that sustain them.

 

 

A peek under the cover shows that whoever has prepared his lunch has outdone themselves.

 

 

He spares a small thought that perhaps the meal is so lavish to hide the fact that it is poisoned. What a terrible death, frothing and spewing from both ends as your guts writhe in agony. Terrible and unnecessary. Surely His Majesty knows Ardyn is no threat to him. Has no ulterior motive beyond fulfilling whatever obligations are set before him so that he can finally, mercifully _die_.

 

 

Should this exquisite meal get him there faster, well… he’ll take whatever he can get. Who needs dignity, anyway? Best to leave a mess behind for someone to remember.

 

 

He has just begun to tuck in when the door chimes. He briefly debates letting whoever is outside stew until they force the issue, but he is a little charmed by the novelty of someone ringing the bell and he rises to see just who has decided to waste good manners on the condemned.

 

 

When he opens the door, he finds himself facing the brawn of the King’s entourage. The Immortal, cool and assessing and the Shield; a smoldering ember of barely-checked ire.

 

 

Behind them is the King, and the weight of his gaze is… mildly surprising. He had entertained seeing to the man’s blindness once he’d been sworn to cement his place amongst the ranks, but he had been wary of interacting with him and rightly so.

 

 

Men like Ignis had been legends even in Ardyn’s time; overcoming what would normally be a crippling disability to an almost god-like degree. He’d heard stories bandied about in his travels but he’d never met anyone that so completely embodied the concept until he’d seen the Chamberlain fighting his way through the city with the sort of finesse people with sight worked their entire lives for.

 

 

The man had identified him almost immediately by voice alone, when he’d successfully fooled everyone else, included the two men in front of him who are now giving him slightly uncomfortable side-eye.

 

 

Oh. Yes. He is mostly naked, isn’t he?

 

 

He smiles winsomely and sweeps back from the opening, so the three of them may enter.

 

 

“Your Majesty, you honor me with your presence. -Please, come in.”

 

 

The two men in front stride past, giving him a noticeably wide-berth. To his delight, the King gives no ground as he enters; sparing barely a glance at his state of undress. Unaffected by his dishabille, he instead takes in the room, eyes finally resting on the table and his barely touched plate.

 

 

“Is this your first meal of the day?”

 

 

Ardyn blinks at the question. It is not, in fact, his first meal. There was a breakfast tray earlier and a carafe of coffee, as per usual. However, he understands what is really being asked. ( _How are you being treated?)_

 

 

“It is not, your Majesty. There was a generous breakfast delivered this morning, with coffee. I believe there’s still some left if you would partake, though I’m afraid it’s gone rather tepid.”

 

 

He holds up a hand.

 

 

“No. Thank you. If you would like to finish eating, we can conduct ourselves here at the table. Marshal Leonis has something he wishes to discuss, as do I. -Would you like a few moments to dress before we start?”

 

 

That is a very kind offer considering Ardyn is the sort of flight risk that no man here could stop, if he were so inclined. Fortunately for them, he is not. He shrugs as he sits in front of his meal once more. Truth be told, he enjoys the mild discomfort his current state brings to… whatever this is.

 

 

Interrogation. Sentencing. Small talk. Perhaps all three.

 

 

“I am quite comfortable, your Majesty. Please begin at your leisure.”

 

 

His humble table technically seats four (if those four are very close friends), but only the King makes use of it. The other two move to their respective positions; the Shield behind and to the side and the Marshal slightly forward; since he is to start.

 

 

He gets right to the point.

 

 

“I realize there’s a story behind what happened last night. -We’ll get to that, but right now what I need is information on something that happened during the Siege. You’ve been very cooperative so far and it would benefit us both if you continued to do so.”

 

 

He raises an eyebrow at that. He’s certain the benefit to himself is the continuation of his relative comfort; nothing more. Did they want a play-by-play of the final battle; taunts and all? Or perhaps a court-side view of the betrayal of Regis? He glances at the King, who is still brittle with grief. What good would such information do now?

 

 

Ah, but he is in no position to question -Save for one.

 

 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific. I was present for at least two Sieges; three, if you count the Daemonic one, though that was less like a Siege and more like—”

 

 

His Majesty interjects.

 

 

“-The _final_ one. The retaking of Insomnia by those it was taken _from_.”

 

 

He hums his assent and decides that focusing on his plate for the moment is the better part of valor. The Immortal clears his throat before resuming. At first, Ardyn listens with half an ear as he picks at his cooling lunch but inevitably the narrative draws him in.

 

He is surprised to learn about the peculiar visions that had affected the other three men after he incapacitated them, especially the King, but he knows where they are going with this and he’s heard enough to give them the answer they are slowly alluding to.

 

 

“Pardon the interruption, but while I will certainly own up to the fact that I’ve done more harm than not in my lifetime at this point, I’m afraid I cannot take credit for the circumstances you are describing. -You’re assuming I am behind these visions, correct?”

 

 

The Marshal looks frustrated.

 

 

“They all happened at the same relative time, yet all stem from one single event; which is the moment you… did whatever you did. Can you substantiate your claim?”

 

 

Well that’s the million gil question now, isn’t it?

 

 

“Not without a lengthy and probably tedious explanation on how magic actually _works_. Also consider, I have no real reason to lie. -Not that I’m ungrateful for the amenities.” He pauses to take a bite from his entrée. “Oh, truly you’ve spoiled me for other gaols.”

 

 

There is a collective frown at that. After a moment, the King speaks.

 

 

“I’ll take that explanation, tedious or no. Along with any suppositions as to your purpose in all of this. While I’m inclined to believe you, there is a part of the story the Marshal has purposely omitted-“

 

 

At this, the Immortal attempts to protest, but is quickly stilled by a raised hand. The King turns his gaze to him and the look is… almost a challenge.

 

 

“As such, I propose a little tit-for-tat. -You first, of course.”

 

 

He tilts his head in acknowledgement. While he is certainly intrigued, he has an idea as to the nature of the information left out by the Marshal. With all the buzz over the Succession and later Ascension, Ardyn has learned some very interesting tid bits about the King’s situation before he was given the Crown. He’s curious as to how that came about.

 

 

Who knows? It might even shed some light on his own state of affairs. Like why he continues to draw breath, despite having fulfilled the role set before him.

 

 

“Very well. While there are many possibilities concerning the kind of mis-direction the three of you experienced that day, realistically the phenomena can be narrowed down to two definitive methods, which I will attempt to explain in a manner that everyone can understand.”

 

 

He lays his fork on his plate and pushes it away. Explaining magical theory to people who only have a very limited grasp will require his full attention. And range of gestures.

 

 

“The first and most economical way to project the illusions you all were all subjected to, is to effect the target’s mind. Through either direct control or through very powerful hypnotic suggestion. Usually, the person would need their inhibitions lowered by drugs or other artificial means for this to be effective, though I supposed it really depends on the person.”

 

 

He gives the King a pointed look. He can only imagine the dosage needed to make _that one_ unclench.

 

 

“The drawback to this method is that it requires constant reinforcement. The mind will inevitably attempt to regulate itself and in doing so, the experience becomes more and more inconsistent to the point of falling apart entirely. -This is why the Empire favored conditioning over programing. More work in the beginning, but less overall in the end.”

 

 

“I find that explanation to be quite prolific for someone who claims to have no hand in these events.”

 

 

He smiles at that.

 

 

“The reason is quite simple, your Majesty. The Kingdom of Solheim had no prisons. -Not because we were some great Utopia, free of crime, but rather because the criminal element was neutralized by internal reconstruction; the level of which was equal to the scope of the crime. When successful, the individual would then be released back into the general population to live a full, more virtuous life; their debt to society paid.”

 

 

The Shield grimaces, his distaste evident.

 

 

“That’s... You’re talking about taking away people’s free-will. Their _identity_.” 

 

 

“Oh come now. The laws of the time were very clear and it was a far more humane method of correction than corporal punishment—and more effective. Though when it failed, it failed rather spectacularly. -But that’s a story for another time.”

 

 

He sighs as he shifts, trying to eek a bit of comfort from the stiff dining chair.

 

 

“While judgement for such an act was occasionally a matter for the Crown, punishment was generally administered by trained professionals; those who specialized in that discipline. I have certainly made use of glamours to conceal and in some memorable cases, cause minor chaos but the sort of control needed to replicate an experience similar to what happened that day for just one of you is quite beyond me—never mind all three.”

 

 

The air is thick with tension over that little revelation, but thankfully no arguments are forthcoming. He continues.

 

 

“The other method, while being more reliable takes a large, sustained amount of magical energy. -Do you recall your time in Steyliff Grove, your Majesty?”

 

 

Both the Marshal and the Shield look to their liege. Gladiolus had been quite conspicuous in his absence then. He’d practically thrown the Shield-less trio at Aranea to ensure they were able to secure the metal needed to continue their quest. She had certainly not been amused.

 

 

The King levels a flat stare across the table. A warning to tread lightly over memories featuring a certain someone.

 

 

“I do. -Is there something specific you’re looking for?”

 

 

He hums in agreement.

 

 

“You’ll recall how certain parts of the structure would appear whole, then crumble only to become whole once more?”

 

 

The former retainer frowns, no doubt remembering how badly it hampered their progress through the ruins. The report he’d bullied from the Dragoon had been an amusing read. Especially considering she didn’t bother to sensor herself for the… _difficulties_.

 

 

“Yes. -I take it this has something to do with the point you’re trying to make?”

 

 

A nod.

 

 

“Indeed. What you actually witnessed was failing of the wards. -For large, complex constructs it was far more economical to sets wards than to employ manual upkeep. Essentially, the warding would create a field around a set area that would act as a time anomaly. Any damage or wear would regress back to a pristine state, due to the field being its own separate reality.”

 

 

This time the Immortal cuts in.

 

 

“Are you suggesting that what happened that day was a form time manipulation?”

 

 

 

He sighs again.

 

 

“More like localized altered reality. Oh, what’s the word.. -A pocket dimension, if you will. And it’s not a suggestion so much as a possibility, and further proof that I had no involvement. While certain abilities have been restored to me and in some ways even improved, at the time the event occurred my body was almost entirely made of Starscourge. I could regenerate at an alarming rate, but actual magic required quite a bit of effort—even the power of my ancestors, passively linked through the Crystal, was affected.”

 

 

He levels his own look at the three of them. This positively _reeks_ of outside influence. A familiar one, at that.

 

 

“I do believe you might be missing the point in all of this. Have you never wondered why one vision was to stall, the other to stray but yours—" He points to the King. “-was meant to _shatter_?”

 

 

At this, the King looks to the Marshal who frowns but offers no protest as he speaks.

 

 

“I believe it’s time you were told the rest. Sometime during the Siege, after my so-called ‘vision’ I was taken from the city. -Well I assume I was taken, because I ended up in Cleigne with no memory of who I was or how I had gotten there. And I stayed that way until very recently. It’s why finding me was such a big deal. Everyone assumed I was dead.”

 

 

“-Not everyone.”

 

 

This from the Shield and the King cracks a smile, despite the circumstances. Well. It seems _those_ rumors are quite true, then. How sweet.

 

 

“Not _quite_ everyone. -So, does any of this help determine what or why-”

 

 

The Marshal deliberately clears his throat, and it is a testament to his service to the Crown, that the King defers to him almost immediately.

 

 

“Marshal?”

 

 

Cor Leonis is rather unassuming until you realize he’s been in the thick of it for nearly an entire Dynasty. Warrior, Spy, Advisor. An Every-Man. Someone who molds himself to the needs of the hour. And does it _well_.

 

 

His stare is palpable. While far removed from his two millennia, the Marshal’s hard-earned wisdom speaks of a worldliness Ardyn has yet to match; seeing how most of that time was spent strung up and forgotten or gibbering to himself in some gods-forsaken lab.

 

 

His frown is an ill omen.

 

 

“There’s something else. Circumstances have prevented me from revealing this until now, but with His Majesty’s permission I will do so in the interest of solving this mystery.”

 

 

He looks to the King who, after a moment, nods his assent.

 

 

“When we found the King, we discovered that he’d been living what we thought to be an abandoned Hunt shelter. I say abandoned because it wasn’t on any map. But it was in good enough shape for habitation so I decided to let someone in the Hunter Network know so it could be re-mapped for both historical and practical purposes.”

 

 

Ardyn listens. Rapt. He is very close to solving the puzzle and he’s quite sure whatever this is will be one of the final pieces.

 

 

“A prominent Hunter and one of our most decorated Kingsglaive went out to the site themselves to do the surveys. They found nothing. I confirmed the visual evidence myself. Beyond the tracks in the grass made by our vehicles, the land is untouched.”

 

 

He lets out a slow breath.

 

 

“According to the testimony of those men, and the pictures taken at the scene, there was never anything there to begin with. -But I know what I saw. What _we_ saw.” He motions to the King. “What he lived. The question now is, where did it go? And why is it gone?”

 

 

Ardyn rubs a finger over his chin in consideration.

 

 

“Tell me, Marshal. Did the site have a Guardian? -When you visited the first time, I mean.”

 

 

 

He can almost hear the ‘click’ as a piece of the puzzle falls into place.

 

 

 

“A guardian? What do you mean—”

 

 

“-Does a Torama count?”

 

 

“-That big, fucking _cat_?“

 

 

 

 

And suddenly it all comes together. He holds up a hand for silence.

 

 

“Well now. That certainly makes things clearer. I, unfortunately, do not have answers for you about your experiences during the re-taking of Insomnia, nor what came after. However, I am one hundred percent sure whom to direct those questions to.”

 

 

The King hasn’t slouched for the entire conversation but his sudden unwavering attention makes him seem taller.

 

 

“And who would that be?”

 

 

 

Ardyn is in a precarious situation. He’s certain the same being he’s about to call out is the same one responsible for his new-found health. And while he certainly welcomes death, he cannot deny that he is quite fond of the new King and perhaps just a tiny bit committed to seeing this through. Whatever it is.

 

 

However, he is loathe to say the name. So instead he recites, like a poem:

 

“On every lintel, every banner—a prayer in every battle.

On soldier’s back and shoulder—His name a whispered order.”

 

 

 

It’s a child’s riddle but he can see the moment realization settles over the three of them.

 

 

“The Bladekeeper. You believe it is his hand in these events?”

 

 

 

The King’s response is quiet, almost a whisper. -He notes the use of Title instead of name. Clever boy.

 

 

“Oh yes. I am quite familiar with his handiwork. -You would be too, had so much not been taken from you. I wonder, do you remember our battle? When you donned the ring?”

 

The King blinks at him, his grave expression tugging into a frown.

 

 

“I remember what I did and why. Of pledging my life, and their judgement.”

 

 

 

Ardyn _tsks_.

 

 

“But do you remember your state of mind? Because the man who faced me that day was certain he had found a way to circumvent fate and was ready to gamble his life on it. And gamble he did, though it wasn’t your life they took. -Convenient isn’t it, that your memory of whatever plan you had to defy the prophecy was taken, along with the means of ever discovering it again.”

 

 

The King’s frown smoothes out into nothing; hands slowly clenching on the table.

 

 

He feels a prickle. Like the hairs on the back of his neck are standing on end. The King is practically _radiating_ malevolence. The two men on either side of him are silent, unsure as their charge fights what is likely an immense inner battle.

 

 

And then… just like that. It’s gone.

 

 

“I can’t.”

 

 

 

It’s Ardyn’s turn to blink at that seeming non-sequitur. Thankfully he continues.

 

 

“I can’t waste anymore time or resources on this. No matter how much I would like answers, there is a more pressing need at hand; one that does not involve questioning Astrals over things that no longer matter. That which was most precious to us has already been lost. What use is there in picking a fight over it now? What’s done is done.”

 

 

The Marshal looks as if he would like to protest, but is summarily shut down.

 

“The two of you are forbidden from investigating this further or sending others to do it for you, am I clear?”

 

 

He waits for the Immortal’s curt nod, before turning to the Shield. He merely shrugs at the proclamation.

 

 

“My place is with you, wherever that happens to be. Here in the Citadel or fighting Astrals. Doesn’t matter. As long as you don’t get it in your fool head to do what you just said not to, we’ll be fine.”

 

 

A bit of the tension drains from the King at that astonishing insolent remark.

 

“I would make a demand of you as well, Ardyn Lucis Caelum.”

 

 

 

Oh, how he _hates_ the way his full name makes him sit up but he quickly tamps down his displeasure.

 

 

“Of course. How can I be of service, your Majesty?”

 

 

 

The King places his palms on the table and rises; walks the few small steps it takes to reach Ardyn’s side and holds a hand out to him in what appears to be supplication.

 

 

“Swear your loyalty to me.” He must see his incredulous look because he adds: “Not to the Crown or to Lucis, but to _me_.”

 

 

He stares at the outstretched hand; those clever digits covered in soft leather.

 

 

What an odd request. Surely the King realizes that though he no longer harbors malice towards _any_ king, Lucian or no, he likewise has no real aspirations of philanthropy. He had been mildly pleased at his restored abilities and curious as to their limits. There was also the need of securing a place in which to enact the will of his erstwhile patron. No more than that.

 

 

And if he’d felt a small sense of contentment at being able to heal people’s hurts once more, well. That was neither here nor there.

 

 

“And why, pray tell, would I do such a thing?”

 

 

 

The King lets his hand drift back to its side.

 

 

“Because this world is in pitiable shape. Because the Prophecy was a messy unnecessary _lie_. Because I refuse to let the past dictate our future. Because even as I burn and seethe with injustice, I will not be tethered to a fate that is not my own choosing.”

 

 

His voice reverberates through him like thunder, and not because it is backed by the Crystal’s power. But that he hears himself in the words.

 

 

Because he once burned with the same fire. -Only it became a pyre which consumed all.

 

 

“My loyalty, such as it is, must be earned—much like everyone else. -However, I can swear that I will do what I can to stave off any unwanted interference from… certain parties. So long as _you_ swear that if I ask for deliverance unto death, that it will be done.”

 

 

 

The former retainer’s intensity seems to diminish somewhat.

 

 

“Is that what he holds over you? Life and death?”

 

 

 

His smile is almost sincere.

 

 

“Mostly life. And all the things in between. I don’t have to imagine what drove you to strike out at the Crystal. I lived them. I lived them over and over until the there was nothing left but _ashes_.”

 

 

Ardyn rises and holds out his hand. In the scant space between them, lay a chasm of the dead.

 

 

He nearly jumps when the King grasps it immediately, as if waiting for him to do just that. Oh dear.

 

 

“I accept your terms. However, I do not expect you to defy your benefactor without assistance. You may relay any pertinent information to either myself, the Marshal or Gladio. You will be supplied a phone that will reach us without fail. Otherwise, you may speak to any of the staff and you will be immediately granted an audience.”

 

He can’t shake the feeling that he has somehow just played into the King’s hands. He pins him with a shrewd look.

 

 

“And should I decide I want to end it all? What then?”

 

 

 

The other man does not harden his grip but something almost sinister passes between them, nonetheless.

 

 

“It will be granted. As many times as needed until it _sticks_. -I will see to it personally, if you like.”

 

 

Ah. The nonchalant spite is like a balm. There was the man from whom Ardyn had taken everything. Good to know the King is human after all. No one that altruistic could possibly be real. Or sane.

 

 

“Then we have an accord.”

 

 

They unclasp and the King inclines his head before looking to his guardians. They nod almost in unison.

 

 

“So it is witnessed. -For the sake of all, it would be best if you continued to operate under your assumed persona. Very clever, by the way. Doctor _Mirin_. If I remember my studies of the old language, doesn’t that mean _mirror_?”

 

 

Oh how delightful. He grins.

 

 

“Very good, your Majesty. You are correct. -For a bit of extra credit, perhaps you can decipher the meaning of my full name for our next meeting. I assume by your posture that we are done for now?”

 

 

The King seems to grudgingly remember that they skipped an entire debriefing. The Immortal comes to his aid.

 

 

“That’s enough for today. Should we need any more information on your activities, past or present, we know where to find you.” He turns to his liege.  “-Will that be all, your Majesty?”

 

 

The King nods his assent, before turning to him once more.

 

 

“Yes. A phone will be delivered shortly, along with brief instructions on it’s use. Your access to the Citadel is hereby restored in accordance with your position. Any inquiries into your brief incarceration are to be explained as classified. You may allude to my ‘illness’ if need be. -For all intents and purposes, you are the hero of the story. That’s all anyone needs to know.”

 

 

Ardyn tilts his head in acquiescence as the King makes his leave. He has one last card to play, and he lays it upon the proverbial table with a flourish.

 

 

A lesson for those who would ask for his _loyalty_.

 

 

“Oh, I was _so_ looking forward to the part where you explained how close you were to death because you wouldn’t touch the _shiny_. -But as His Majesty wishes. I look forward to our future success.”

 

 

He bows to the King’s back, now stiff under the combined glare of Shield and Immortal alike. To his credit, the man barely pauses; though his ears begin to turn an endearing shade of pink. They leave in silence, the air around them heavy with things unspoken.

 

 

He does not envy the King being left to the ire of those two. But it serves him right. Just as Ardyn once took in more disease than his body could handle, so has the King taken too much upon himself. Self-reliance has been the man’s modus operandi for so long, its likely instinctual by now.

 

 

But that just won’t do. Especially when it looks like at least one Astral has been actively trying to take him out of the picture. Or at least _was_. He’s uncertain as to the intent now, but he supposes only time will tell.

 

 

He unwraps his hair, quickly running his hands over his scalp. He’ll take the time to brush it properly, then he might take a nap. He has much to think about after all, and what better time to do it than when the mind is free to pursue all possibilities.

 

 

He wanders into the bathroom to find his brush, then sits upon his bed to begin. He wants to think his mind will be too preoccupied for nightmares, but is glad the guards will be dismissed all the same.

 

 

No sense in traumatizing anyone. Unintentionally, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gladnis next. Because they deserve it, dammit. (Also this thing is over fifty pages long in 8 point font--my longest work yet). -_-;


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The promised Gladnis. WARNING: This is a porn chapter. There's no real plot here and the porn itself is set up on a pretty thin premise (even if its completely valid). I've never actually written porn before, being Asexual but the bois deserve it. 
> 
> If that wasn't clear enough HERE THERE BE SEX. Explicit sex. Between two dudes. If you want to go on thinking that Gladio and Ignis are just really super good friends that sleep in the same room and occasionally think about each other 'that way', then perhaps skip this and go on to Chapter 8.
> 
> (Also this has barely been proofed so um... sorry if you find grammar stuff. Feel free to put that in the comments.)

Ignis makes it a few more hours, two of them a lengthy dressing-down from Cor that Gladio can only partially participate in (because it’s not like he hasn’t been hiding certain things) before his energy levels start to wane.

 

 

When he asks about Prompto twice in the span of twenty minutes, Gladio knows his King’s brain, fine-tuned instrument though it is, has pretty much reached the end of its endurance.

 

 

“C’mon. We’re going to bed.”

 

 

Bleary green eyes blink at him. He’s been reading the same piece of paper for ten minutes now.

 

 

“Gladio, it’s three in the afternoon. -I have far too much work to do.”

 

 

He raises a brow at that. Normally, Ignis would be using a special text recognition app to transcribe and dictate his daily drudgery when Talcott or Gladio isn’t around to read it to him. Obviously this has become unnecessary but the Shield can’t help but notice the paperwork is still eroding at a snail’s pace, if at all.

 

 

“Yes, I can see how hard you’re working. -I’ll make a deal with you. If you can tell me what you’re reading without glancing back at the page, I’ll leave you to it.”

 

 

The King’s mouth slides into a frown and knows he’s _got him_.

 

 

“Supply requisitions.”

 

 

Its token resistance, and they both know it. Still, Gladio whisks the paper out of his hand and skims it just for solidarity. He glowers when it turns out to be exactly that.

 

 

“Lucky guess.”

 

 

Ignis sighs; messaging the bridge of his nose. It’s a pretty blatant Tell, which means he’s either too tired to notice or he knows and just doesn’t _care_.

 

 

“More like an educated one, but fine. Promise that I will get some actual rest if I go with you now, and I shall do so without further delay. However, be warned that if I am to lay in bed awake, then I refuse to stay idle. You will bring me work to do.”

 

 

He can hear the order in those words, soft as they are with exhaustion.

 

 

“Do we have an agreement?”

 

 

Gladiolus gives this some real consideration. He knows a sure-fire way to put most people to sleep, but they haven’t really progressed to that point in their relationship. A quick grope under the covers is about all they’ve had time for. -Not that he’s complaining. It’s like he’s won the lottery every time he wakes up with Ignis tucked under his chin.

 

 

They’ve got time now, though. Time enough to cure Iggy’s chronic insomnia the only way that might actually _work_.

 

 

“Alright. Yeah. I’ll take that bet. -C’mon.”

 

 

He holds out his hands and his lover sighs again as he taps the papers into a neat pile before letting Gladio lift him from the chair. Even though the Citadel is officially off Lockdown, no one has made demands of the King’s time. This is largely due to group effort, otherwise Ignis would be holding court as usual despite having survived a major life event.

 

 

Thankfully the entire staff knows just how over-developed their King’s work ethic is. The fact that Ignis has been reduced to the most mundane and least taxing of all his duties is a testament to their timely intervention.

 

 

Gladio leads them past the bedroom and into the bathroom.

 

 

Ignis looks at the large, expensive shower stall with longing. There’s definitely incentive there. Especially now that there’s no real need for water rationing (within reason). But inevitably exhaustion wins.

 

 

“While a shower sounds wonderful, I’m really much too tired for it at the moment. -Let’s just go to bed.”

 

 

Normally, that would be a welcome suggestion, but for the things Gladio has in mind a shower is non-negotiable. Out of the four of them, even compared to Noctis who was a true Princess when it came to cleanliness, Ignis is by _far_ the worst. There’s no way he’s getting anywhere below the waist unless the man has washed at least once, and he knows he skipped in favor of getting a word in with the Asshole.

 

 

“It’ll be worth it. -I’ll help and we’ll both be done in half the time.”

 

 

The King seems like he wants to protest—that is, until realization kicks in and the thought of them both naked, wet and in very close proximity shuts it down. Good to know the appeal is strong enough that he doesn’t even bother justifying it—just starts shucking clothes with less coordination than usual. Though whether its because he’s flustered or just tired is anyone’s guess.

 

 

He strips down as well, letting Ignis get the water going since he has a head start.

 

 

The King is usually up before him, so they really haven’t had a chance to do the mutual shower thing, but Gladio hopes the experience is memorable enough to make him maybe consider waking at a sane hour so they can do a repeat performance.

 

 

He crowds up behind Ignis, molding himself to the other’s back as he reaches in to test the water. Startled, he stiffens in surprise before melting into Gladio’s larger bulk.

 

 

“Mmm. No funny business now. I’m scraping the bottom as it is, just for this.”

 

 

Gladio gives him a quick peck under the ear as he steps into the shower, his arm going around the other man’s waist as soon as he’s inside. Ignis squirms a bit, then settles; unsure of the logistics of sharing facilities quite in this fashion. In all fairness, Gladio hasn’t really done this either, being too intimate a gesture in his history of short flings—even with Aranea, which had been the closest thing to a serious relationship he’d had until now.

 

 

But desire is a powerful motivator and Gladio has a head full of untried fantasies, thanks to his (mostly) secret addiction to romance novels.

 

 

 

“Let me handle the top and you handle the bottom. Everything above board. -How’s that?”

 

 

If Ignis doesn’t want the sexy version of this, that’s a shame but Gladio’s real interest is the Endgame so he’s prepared to bank it as long as he needs to. He’s understandably taken aback when the King turns in his arms; puts both palms on his ass and _squeezes_.

 

 

“How about you handle the top and I’ll handle _your_ bottom?”

 

 

It’s embarrassing how quickly certain parts of him react to that. He reaches behind to where Ignis is giving his glutes something very close to a deep tissue massage and covers the hands with his own.

 

 

“Ok so let’s talk about ‘no funny business.’ -If you’re planning on getting me riled up, you better be able to follow through. Otherwise that’s a dick-move and not the fun kind.”

 

 

Ignis ‘hmm’s and gives his rear a parting squeeze before disengaging. Gladio tells himself he’s not disappointed. -It’s mostly true.

 

 

He pulls the slighter man close to him and angles him into the spray. They both take a minute to get the basics out of the way; wetting hair and skin before Gladio gets a palm full of shampoo and starts working it into Ignis’ scalp.

 

He’d always suspected that the former Chamberlain was a highly tactile person who suppressed it for the sake of the job. The way he puts nearly his full weight against him as he leans into his hands is proof enough of that. It’s a gratifying discovery.

 

 

There isn’t a lot of time to explore. He’s highly aware that this is just the warm-up and while Iggy seems to enjoy running his soaped hands over Gladio’s body, he’s for the most part keeping it perfunctory.

 

 

When they are done, he resists the urge to towel down the other man (later, he promises himself) and instead lets Ignis tend to himself as he does the same. Still too wet to dress, they both don robes and head for the bedroom.

 

 

He corrals Iggy to the bed before he can move to where the clothes are and obligingly, he sits heavily on the end of it at Gladio’s urging. After a moment he leans back on both hands; legs splayed. If it weren’t for the robe the sight would be the most pornographic thing _ever_ , but even with the partial coverage it is giving his control a run for its money.

 

Wet Ignis is best Ignis. Gods _bless_.

 

 

“I can’t help but feel you might have an ulterior motive for getting me into bed. -Am I correct in that assumption?”

 

 

He doesn’t sound at all disappointed in that. Or suspicious even. More amused than anything as he flexes his legs; widening them ever so slightly. Gladio’s never given head before but he’s seriously considering unwrapping the man like a gift and burying his face between those thighs. Possibly making a home there.

 

 

He swallows, his mouth suddenly full of saliva.

 

 

“No. My motive is still for you to get some actual honest-to-gods sleep. -It’s the method that’s in question, and I happen to know this method works when others fail.”

 

 

His hands twitch minutely, but he doesn’t touch. Not yet.

 

 

“I also happen to know it’s one you haven’t tried yet.”

 

 

Because in the interest of full-disclosure, Ignis had given him a short overview of his sexual history which was kind of a joke because it was non-existent. He’s over thirty and he’s never had sex; he’s never even _dated_ , though he didn’t lack for suitors.

 

 

He says it was due to his position but Ignis has always been a looker, even in his awkward teen years, so the fact that people were already lining up doesn’t surprise him. It’s the fact that Regis apparently endorsed this self-imposed celibacy (albeit reluctantly), due to the fact that the Chamberlain was so close to his son.

 

 

He can see the logic of it. A lot of unscrupulous courtiers would leap at the chance to be a part of the Prince’s inner circle and Ignis would have seemed like easy access—if only he’d actually _been_ easy. Or interested.

 

 

Gladio is jolted out of his ramble by the feel of hands under his robe, sliding up his thighs; tracing the ‘v’ of his pelvis. He can’t help but suck in a breath as deft fingers slide over the length of him, which is swiftly becoming very interested the proceedings.

 

 

“I suppose we’d better make use of the time, then. I’ve waited long enough to become intimately acquainted with _this_.”

 

 

Having tugged the robe aside, Ignis leans forward and rubs his cheek against Gladio’s rapidly swelling erection. The hot ghost of his contented sigh is like a low-watt current and it takes everything he has not to jerk from the intensity of it.

 

 

He can’t stop the low whine that wrings out of him.

 

 

The realization that Ignis is not intimidated by his size is something of a relief. It’s not like he’s huge or anything, his dick is proportionate to the rest of him, but people think they want big until faced with the reality of it and then things usually take a turn towards the awkward.

 

 

Gladio has learned to please his partners in other ways; his hands, his mouth. He’ll only give whatever Ignis is comfortable with. Even if it doesn’t get him off.

 

 

He has always put the pleasure of his partner before his own, sometimes by necessity. That will serve him well here.

 

 

The man in question pins him with a stare as he rubs his face into his groin like a cat; his blunt nails scraping lightly down his thighs. It would probably be a good idea to see just how far Ignis wants to go with this. Set some boundaries. That kind of thing.

 

 

He tries to separate himself from the intimate exploration enough to form _words_.

 

 

“So… _hah_.. where do you see this going, Iggy?”

 

 

The pad of the former chamberlain’s thumb is currently rubbing gentle circles into the swell of his sac. His face is nestled into the crease of his thigh so his hum of consideration feels like a lighter-than-light caress.

 

 

“Inside of me? -Or did you mean the overall situation? I suppose that answers the question either way. -Oh, there we are…”

 

 

And just like that he’s hard. Hard enough to probably be hazardous. Ignis places a soft kiss against his heated shaft then pulls away; leaning back once more to admire his handiwork.

 

 

“I hope you don’t mind, but if it’s all the same to you I should like to skip the appetizer and move to the main course.”

 

 

He takes a deep breath; lets it out slowly. Gladio is only a tiny bit disappointed that Ignis is not really interested in extended foreplay. Because this is the part where casual flings throw in the towel, too intimidated by his size to consider taking him in. But Ignis is looking at his swollen length like it’s the best ride at a Carnival, and while he’s never been a selfish man, he has never hesitated in procuring that which he believes himself entitled to.

 

 

This is apparently no different.

 

 

“It’s going to take some work. Do you want me to… or would you rather..”

 

 

Gladio hesitates only because his fingers are as large as the rest of him and he is hyper aware that this is Ignis’ first go at penetrative sex. He’s not the guy for first-timers, not for this part anyway, but for once fate has blessed him with a partner who knows exactly what they want. And it just so happens they want his slightly over-sized dick.

 

 

Ignis smiles absently, still staring at his exposed arousal like the line is taking a bit too long.

 

 

“It will certainly take some work, as most good things do. -I’ll see to myself this time, for expediency, but perhaps next time we can see how much stimulation I can take before climax. With just your fingers.”

 

 

Oh. That sounds fun. The vision his mind presents of Ignis writhing over his lap as Gladio strokes the inside of him with three, maybe even four of his fingers is enough to make him start to drip. Ignis follows the path with his eyes as a bead of precum swells and drops to the floor.

 

 

That seems to wake him up a bit and he slithers up the bed to the nightstand where he keeps their homemade slick. Gladio still hasn’t worked up the nerve to ask for an ingredient list but whatever keeps them off the official radar suits him just fine. Not that he’s ashamed but the alternative is for it to be on a shopping list that Talcott would be looking at. And while he’s sure there’s something more mortifying than buying lube for family members, he honestly can’t think of anything at the moment.

 

As he watches, Ignis slicks his fingers and sits on splayed knees as he reaches behind himself. It’s not sexy; he’s obviously concentrating on making his body ready for intrusion, but after a bit his skin begins to flush. The slip and slide of his own fingers becomes something other than careful prep.

 

 

Gladio’s arousal hasn’t gone down at all and is, in fact, becoming borderline painful when Ignis focuses on him again.

 

 

“Would you like to see what I’m doing?”

 

 

 

His voice is low in way Gladio has never heard and it makes his whole lower half tighten like a clamp.

 

 

“That depends. -Would you like me to shoot off early?”

 

 

 

Ignis’ eyes are slits as he rocks back onto his own hand. He ‘hmms’ in that same low register before removing his fingers and turning. The musculature of his back is like artwork but it’s the sight of him reaching back, then in and holding himself _open_ that rips the breath out of his chest.

 

 

His ragged gasp seems to tip Ignis off as to how close he is.

 

 

“Oh, don’t you _dare_. I’m _aching_ for you; don’t you dare spill a single drop anywhere that’s not _inside me_.”

 

 

Gladio is teetering on a precipice. He’s too scared to touch himself, even to try use his hands as a cockring. Instead he closes his eyes. Breathes. It helps a little, not to see the gleaming pink skin stretched apart by those gorgeous, clever fingers. After a bit, he wrests enough control to climb on the bed and help himself to the slick.

 

 

He’s marginally impressed by how fast Ignis was able to loosen up, but he knows that it’ll still be narrow and dry further in. He shuffles close and nudges Ignis until he’s in a good position, putting a generous dollop of slick on just the head of his cock.

 

 

The breath leaves the body in front of him as he easily breaches past where Ignis is spreading himself wide. As soon as he meets resistance he pulls out, applies another bead of slick and carefully pushes back in. Ignis breathes out a barely articulated ‘ _oh_ ’ when he realizes what Gladio is doing. There will likely be an oily puddle left after this but he could care less about the _sheets_.

 

 

It only takes a few more times until there’s no resistance left and Gladio is fully-seated in a hot, tight sheath that is soft and wet and so so good.

 

 

Ignis slides his fingers out and traces where they are joined; his other hand massaging Gladio’s sac the best it can with the awkward angle.

 

 

“Iggy, I need you to stop or this is going to be over before it starts.”

 

 

Ignis makes a sort-of moan as he moves his hands to the front and nearly collapses on them, his back the kind of arch they write songs about.

 

 

“Oh… Oh.. we can’t have that. This can never end. -Ever.”

 

 

Gladio is doing his very best not to prematurely paint the other man’s insides, but he can’t help but add:

 

“That’s going to make Court really awkward.”

 

 

The remark startles a chuckle out of him, and they both hiss slightly at the jostle. Ignis throws his weight against Gladio’s pelvis and _grinds_.

 

 

“Awkward for who? This is… this is quite comfortable. It’s so _good_ , Gladio.”

 

 

That last bit comes at as a groan and Gladio begins to move, shallow and careful at first. Mapping the other man out. He still feels two seconds from coming, but at this point it doesn’t matter. He’ll make sure Ignis gets off, he just has to find—

 

 

“Haaah!”

 

 

He stops and rotates his hips in a full circle, grinding against what he hopes is Ignis’ prostate. The sound the other man makes is in an octave he’d normally assume was impossible for humans.

 

 

Well then.

 

 

He pulls Ignis by the hips until they are as close as they can possibly get, then drapes himself over his back. Finds his hand and curls their fingers together. Instinctively, Ignis collapses onto his elbows as Gladio lets him take some of his weight. It’s almost how they wake up, except Ignis' ass is in the air and currently taking all of him in like he was made for it.

 

 

Gladio murmurs into the ear that isn’t pressed into the pillows.

 

 

“We’re going to have to race for this last part because I’m not going to last. You ready?”

 

 

The hand that is not entwined with Ignis’ reaches down to find the smoothness of the other’s cock; the velvet softness of his balls. He strokes them lightly as Ignis squirms beneath him.

 

 

“Yes. Give it to me. Give me _everything_.”

 

 

He pulls almost completely out, partially for leverage and partially to test the integrity of the lube. Other than the pressure of uncharted territory, the slide is still exquisite and he pistons back in. He’s rewarded with half-cut off wail that becomes a serious of breathy high-pitched keens as he puts his developed abdominals to work.

 

 

He doesn’t count the thrusts but as predicted it’s over quickly. Ignis grinds into him as best he can, pinned as he is by Gladio’s weight and a lets out a full-body groan when he feels the spurt of release deep inside.

 

 

Gladio continues to thrust into him, slowly this time, almost a massage until Ignis goes completely limp.

 

 

He pulls out. Ignis has allowed himself to sink fully into the bedding face first and Gladio indulges in a bit of inspection. He spreads the toned cheeks and rubs a thumb over the glistening pucker. A tiny bit of pressure and it swallows the digit easily; still soft and slick after their lovemaking.

 

 

He wants to go inside, until he feels the thicker texture of his spend but he’s not sure Ignis is quite ready for that type of play yet. Though he seemed enthusiastic enough earlier, when thinking of the future.

 

 

He sits up and runs a hand down the other’s back just because its beautiful and he _can_.

 

 

“Hey. How much aftercare do you want? Just a wipe up, or do you need a shower and some clean sheets?”

 

 

 

The prone, stark-naked form of his lover does not answer. Does not even _twitch_.

 

 

“Iggy?”

 

 

 

He leans over and sure enough, he’s greeted with the slow, even breaths of someone very deeply asleep. He doesn’t even try to stop his grin as he presses a kiss to the side of his head. Gladio decides on a wipe down and walks to the bathroom for an already damp towel. Ignis will probably leak a bit but there’s no way he’s waking the other up after all the trouble he went through to get him under. -Even though really it was no trouble.

 

 

No trouble at all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small plot chapter. We're gearing up for another big reveal. Don't expect updates this fast--I was stress-writing this weekend due to my adopted son going missing for a week (he's a cat), but he's home safe! \o/
> 
> Warning: Mildly graphic descriptions of corpses. Might be slightly disturbing but also treated respectfully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small story edits listed here, so you don't have to go back and read them
> 
> -Changed 'Blademaster' to 'Bladekeeper' in Chapter 6 (Because that's Gilgamesh, not Bahamut)  
> -Correctly spelled Besithia's name the one time Aranea thought it in Chapter... 3 I think? (and throughout this chapter)  
> -Added a tiny bit to the part where Ignis remembers Dustin Ackers in Chapter 6--because I hadn't realized you potentially meet with him multiple times before Ignis goes blind  
> -Tags were removed (because Author is in Chapter 8 now)  
> -Added estimated Story Length. Will AT LEAST be 10 chapters. Probably longer. Or perhaps a series.

Prompto is man enough to admit, if only to himself, that he’s in _hiding_.

 

 

Not that taking care of the kids isn’t already a full-time job (even with the extra help), but he’s barely left the nursery unless its to take them somewhere, and certainly no farther than the small park right outside the Citadel.

 

 

He’s pretty sure Talcott knows he’s being weird, even for him, but hasn’t commented.

 

 

They see each other on the regular now. Since Ignis got his sight back Talcott’s duties have been shifted to the few things the King deigns to delegate which means more often than not he’s helping Prompto with kid-wrangling.

 

 

Today is a rarity, where he has just the babies to look after. Talcott has the two girls and the oldest boy while Monica has the twins (he knows they’re all twins really, but those two are definitely a team). Ideally, this lets him stay in the nursery which makes him less anxious but considering infants aren’t exactly great conversationalists (or mobile), they don’t really distract him from his ruminations.

 

 

The truth of the matter is that he’s in panic mode.

 

 

Fucking _Ardyn_ has been around his kids. The man whose actions carried a still-unknown death toll but one that certainly included children has probably even had his _hands_ on them. And while Prompto honestly doesn’t think he would actively try to hurt them, thanks to the notes he’d found of Besithia’s work, he knows the immortal is more than a little _unhinged_.

 

 

He can kind of sympathize. Besithia and Ardyn had been frenemies of a sort; but that hadn't stopped the scientist from performing multiple experiments on the other—mostly connected with the scourge and his regenerative functions which had made him pretty much stop reading after a certain point. To preserve sanity and his ability to eat again, ever.

 

 

Still, the guy who murdered Lunafreya, was key to Iggy’s being blinded and who led Noct to his crystal coffin; then sat around and let the world wither and rot for a decade is not the guy you want around small children. He’s pretty sure he’s not totally off-base there.

 

 

His thoughts are interrupted by a light rapping on the door.

 

 

He frowns. He’s not expecting anyone and most people use the chime—not that he’s complaining. The chime is loud and often wakes up anyone who’s taking a nap in here. Whoever is using their knuckles must know that.

 

 

Still. He makes sure he’s ready for a fight before he answers the door. To his relief, its Cor. Or at least, someone who looks like him. Fucking _Ardyn_. What are you supposed to do when the guy you’re looking out for can look like anyone?

 

 

Prompto is not very big, muscle-wise but he does his best to fill the doorway.

 

 

“Um, hi. _Cor._ Today the toll is to tell me something about yourself that people don’t generally know. -It doesn’t have to be like… _embarrassing_ or anything but probably something you couldn’t find out by asking around or having access to your medical files or whatever. So…yeah.”

 

 

He clucks his tongue and makes cheesy finger pistols at the Marshal (which he will totally back with real pistols if things get weird and Ardyn-y) who blinks at him for a second before his face settles on something that might be _approval_. Huh.

 

 

“You know, this only works if you know a lot about the other person. And about two-thirds of my exploits have been bandied around to the point that even if you heard them, they’re probably only ten percent truth. I could literally tell you _anything_. -You sure you want to play this game?”

 

 

He’s totally right. Prompto knows barely anything about the Immortal beyond the fact that he’s always _there_ and pretty much always has been. -Oh, and that he’s low-key the baddest mother fucker in Eos.

 

 

He can feel himself start to break out in a sweat.

 

 

“I’m sorry but that’s not the password. Try again?”

 

 

 

The person in front of him doesn’t frown but doesn’t give an inch either. Just raises an eyebrow that basically says ‘wow I do this every day and you’re so so bad at it.’

 

 

“I thought you said it was a toll? Now it’s a password? Which one is it?”

 

 

He kind of feels like the Marshal might be trolling him right now, which is definitely an Ardyn thing, but he’s not giving off the creepy uncle vibe so it might just be.. Cor trolling him. Which is weird in its own right.

 

 

“Look, I don’t know. Just give me _something_. Convince me you’re not some dangerously unstable immortal that can look like people you know that wants to maybe reminisce about how many times he got cut up by a guy who looks a lot like me.”

 

 

He can feel his heart racing now. He’s… He’s pretty sure it’s really Cor but…

 

 

The older man looks at him with such understanding that it actually calms him down a tiny bit.

 

 

“Alright. Let’s try something a little different. How about I tell you something about yourself that I couldn’t find out by asking around or looking at your medical history? -Would that work?”

 

 

He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

 

 

“Ok. So back during the War, I was sent on a very secret, very vital mission to see exactly what the Empire was directing so many non-military resources to. I was told to bring back any data I could find on what was going on over there. But what I found was not something I could just copy onto a drive. I’m sure you can understand why.”

 

 

Prompto kind of feels like he’s been hit. Like numb and maybe disoriented. There’s no way he could mean—

 

 

“It was a little like a horror movie. I’ll spare you the details, since you’ve seen first-hand what those facilities are like. The sheer enormity of it was staggering, and the weight all those lives made completing the mission even more urgent. -That is, until I heard crying. Then I sort of forgot about anything other than answering that call.”

 

 

Cor looks at him and he _knows_. He knows in a way that no one else ever has and ever _will_.

 

 

“I didn’t think we’d make it. But making it was all I could think about and somehow, we did. Technically, I failed the mission considering that all I brought back was a baby and my own testimony of what I saw. But it was enough to know the implications and Regis promised me you’d be taken care of. I guess for the most part that was true.”

 

 

It was _him_. He’s the one. The one who fucking _saved him_.

 

 

“I’m sorry your placement turned out to be… not ideal. I know your parents were gone lot—more than they should have been. If circumstances had been different, I’d have taken you in myself—”

 

 

He doesn’t get to finish before Prompto is out of the door and on him; holding on for dear life.

 

 

It’s not like he looked. It wasn’t something he could exactly ask around about after he’d made Crownsguard—he was too scared it would end up leading back to him; exposing his secret. But there hasn’t been a day, especially since finding the kids, that he hasn’t wanted to know the identity of the person who risked life and limb to rescue him from a fate worse than death. To thank them, in any way he could.

 

 

Prompto always figured he’d be thanking a name on a memorial somewhere--assuming he ever found out who the person was or where they died. But now he’s here, crying into their chest which would normally be mortifying but the other man is hugging him back and it feels… like relief. Like a part of him can finally _rest_.

 

 

“Did I pass the test?”

 

 

He looks up from where he’s soaking the Immortal’s shirt and releases him; wiping at his face. Slowly he is released as well and they both look at each other for a quiet moment. Prompto gives a hapless chuckle.

 

 

“Kind of? I mean… That Administrative Override, though. Powerful stuff.”

 

 

Cor looks at him expectantly. He jerks because they just talked about heavy life stuff out in a public hallway, and he’s pretty sure whatever else is said should probably not. Be said. In said hallway. Also hugging.

 

 

He steps inside and motions for the other to follow.

 

 

After a cursory look over, Cor takes a seat in the sitting room and Prompto offers the usual hospitality of whatever is laying around in liquid form that’s not baby formula. He waves him off.

 

 

“I’m good. -If you don’t mind, I need to ask you to do something for me. It’s entirely voluntary considering the risks and I would ask that you don’t mention it to anyone due to the sensitive nature of it.”

 

 

Prompto pokes his head into the actual nursery itself to check and see if either of the boys are awake. They aren’t and he goes and sits down on the couch facing the chair the Marshal has claimed, nearly bouncing from the sudden energy he has.

 

 

“Alright. -I mean as long as you know that any time away from the bitties has to be like… subbed out to someone else.”

 

 

Cor just gives him a Look. He shrugs, helplessly. It’s the new standard disclaimer for his _life_. There’s literally nothing he can do about it. Yay for fatherhood or big-brotherhood or whatever.

 

 

“I’ve already taken that into consideration. Before I make my request, how mad are you at Aranea?”

 

 

He’s doing that thing where he cocks his head like a dog and he _hates_ that but he also doesn’t really understand the question even though he knows all the words used, and their meaning. Just not that particular assembly.

 

 

“I’m…not? I mean things would have been different if Iggy—ah, the King hadn’t been there with a counter-offer, but we were just barely scraping by and if she hadn’t given me the boot, I might have tried to keep scraping rather than impose, you know?”

 

 

The Marshal nods as if that was less new information and more of a validation of what he already knew.

 

 

“That’s very big of you. And will hopefully make what I’m going to ask a good deal easier.”

 

 

Cor leans forward, his elbows propped on his knees and his hands clasped in classic ‘brooding mastermind’ pose. It would probably be super inappropriate to snap a picture right now but he really, really wants to.

 

 

“What I need, is for you to go back to Zegnautus Keep. -Specifically for the jamming device that kept his Highness from accessing the Crystal’s power. However much of it you can bring back, along with any data on how it works would be a start—but obviously the whole thing would be best.”

 

 

Prompto doesn’t say anything for a few beats. His memories of that place are not good ones; the battle with what was left of Ravus especially had haunted him for a long time. And while he doesn’t know the man as well as he would like, especially knowing the role he played in his life, he knows the Marshal doesn’t ask it of him lightly.

 

 

“It’s for Ardyn, isn’t it? -To keep him from using the Crystal.”

 

 

That would be enough really. Anything to take away just one advantage from someone who has so many already. But the Marshal doesn’t answer immediately. And when he does, it’s not what he’s expecting.

 

 

“For the most part. There are other reasons, but they’re classified. I know that’s not much to risk your neck for but believe me when I say that it is extremely important that we get our hands on that technology.”

 

 

He mulls that over. It’s a good idea and he’s very keen on keeping whatever shackles he can on someone as potentially dangerous as Ardyn but that’s a lot of grey area and he’s not sure its worth going back into that horrible mess for something that will only _kinda_ weaken him.

 

 

He sighs.

 

 

“Part of me is really interested in this, but the other part is wondering how the hell this is going to get pulled off. -I mean, where is it even? Last we saw, it was still a functioning ship and Captain Crazy was the pilot.”

 

 

Cor gives him an even look over his clasped hands.

 

 

“So we ask him where he parked it. My main concern is getting Aranea to help without bleeding the treasury dry. To be honest with you, I’m hoping to get the ‘guilt trip’ discount. -I just need you to say yes.”

 

 

 

Well damn. Used as a coupon. _Nice_.

 

 

“Dude. That’s so messed up.”

 

 

 

The older man untangles from his pose and just… sprawls back into the chair with a sigh.

 

 

“It’s not just that. You might be one of the only people capable of getting it here in working order or even understanding how to operate the damn thing. I know you did similar work when you ran salvage with her and this will really be no different save for how important it is to this country’s security.”

 

 

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen the Marshal let go of himself like that. He’s always so collected, like a recruitment poster or something. He can only hope it’s because of their shared history that he’s allowed to see how exasperated he is.

 

 

He feels weirdly honored, even if he’s still kind of annoyed.

 

 

“What am I supposed to tell her about why we’re even doing this? If she thinks for a second that she’s being deceived, she’ll pull out even if it means leaving me there. Are we going to tell her about—”

 

 

“No. We don’t tell her about Ardyn. We tell _no one_ about Ardyn. As far as I’m concerned there is only a guy who kind of looks like him, named Doctor Mirin. -She’s likely already aware of the King’s mysterious malady. Let her think its some kind of incompatibility with the Crystal. It’s not even a lie.”

 

 

He frowns because he doesn’t know what the hell that’s about either. Nor whatever made Gladio into man-jelly the other night. He figures its part of the whole package of classified things that Cor can’t tell him about. But that’s ok, he’s not stupid. He can add things up for himself.

 

 

“Alright. I’m in. -On two conditions.”

 

 

Cor sits up for that, and it’s a bit heady to command that sort of attention.

 

 

“First, tell me right now who you’re getting to watch the kids while I’m away.”

 

 

The older man doesn’t even miss a beat.

 

 

“Me. -Along with whoever is on rotation, but I’ll take over your spot.”

 

 

 

He nods his approval because the Marshal is awesome with the kids. That’s a tiny baby-step down from saying that Iggy would be doing it (but honestly Iggy is already doing it anyway, just not full-time).

 

 

 

“Sweet. -Second, I want Libertus. If Gladio isn’t going then we’ll probably need some big muscle because last I saw, that place was basically a daemon incubator. Between Me, Aranea and him we should be able to take out whatever might be left in there. But I can’t do salvage and fight at the same time. So we’ll need someone that can concentrate on that.”

 

 

 

Prompto can tell Cor doesn’t relish the thought of bringing another person in on the job but he’s not budging on this one. He knows exactly what was in there, what might _still_ be in there and he knows its more than the majority of Aranea’s crew can handle.

 

 

The Immortal leans forward in the chair, his arms laying on his knees as he thinks it over.

 

 

“Alright kid. You drive a hard bargain but I’ll get him. -Same explanation goes as far as why we’re doing this. Only a handful of Crownsguard knows about Ardyn’s existence and I intend to keep it that way for as long as possible. -He’s back to using a glamour, by the way, but do your best not to say his real name if you happen to see him.”

 

 

He must make a disgusted face, because it gets a bark of laugher out of the Marshal. He gets up.

 

 

“That’s all I wanted to talk to you about. Thank you for agreeing to this. I’ll do whatever I can to make sure it’s a success. The King will have my ass otherwise—not because of the mission. But because it’s _you_.”

 

 

He sputters for a moment while Cor looks towards the room where he knows the two youngest boys are sleeping. Then looks back at Prompto, assessing.

 

 

“You’ve been holing yourself up in here for a while now. It’s because of _him_ isn’t it?”

 

 

 

He hears the emphasis and doesn’t bother denying it. What would be the point?

 

 

“Yeah. It’s just… I know he’s been helping people but…”

 

 

 

The Marshal turns and goes into the nursery. He follows on instinct but only watches as the Immortal picks up one of the boys who inevitably starts to fuss at being woken.

 

 

“Oh enough of that. You’ve been sleeping all day. Its time to get up.”

 

 

 

He bounces the squalling infant until he calms a bit. He eyes Prompto then glances at the other crib.

 

 

 

“C’mon. Let’s get them changed and fed so we can take them outside. It’s a nice day.”

 

 

With a start, Prompto realizes that the Marshal is volunteering to escort. He honestly doesn’t know how to respond to that. He’s been hit with a lot of stuff in the last hour or so concerning the other man, and he’s still processing most of it. Even so, his anxiety has lowered from high alert to a far more manageable general alert and he figures this is as good as it gets.

 

 

He goes to the other crib and picks up the squirming occupant who has no doubt been awakened by his brother’s cries. Lets Cor handle the other (he seems to know what he’s doing at the changing table) while he gets some formula going. He hums a little song while he bounces and twirls; getting things ready. The tiny version of him he’s holding makes happy baby sounds.

 

 

He’ll never admit it to the man because wow, _awkward_ but he thinks this must be what it feels like to have a real parent. To _be_ a real parent. Its like something has settled inside and suddenly things are a lot clearer than they were. More stable.

 

 

He snaps a pic of his charge blowing a spit-bubble and makes it his new wallpaper. He takes a ton more when they get outside. -He even manages to get a couple of Cor crouched down trying to get one of them to walk, which he promises to delete later.

 

 

But totally doesn’t.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

Rose Fionnelli, or Mother Fionne as she is known throughout Lestallum General Hospital, has lived too long.

 

 

At least, that’s what she tells herself. She’s survived two major wars and the Endless Night while so many of her peers and loved ones perished. She’s not even sure how, other than being a fairly hale woman; now in her seventies. Part of her thinks it might be a curse, but other parts think that she’s lucky. Lucky to live to tell the stories of the people gone before so they might live on in other ways.

 

 

Gone but not forgotten.

 

 

She hums as she makes her way down to the lower floors, to the basement; the constant bustle of the busiest hospital on the continent gradually fading into quiet. Most people find the basement and more properly, the morgue to be creepy and disquieting but to Rose, who has buried and mourned so many in her life it feels more peaceful than anything. Respectful even.

 

 

It’s this understanding and caring of the dead that made her a candidate for this very special task.

 

 

Not many people know about the secret guests this morgue hosts. Very few in fact. Thankfully due to the stigma of the morgue itself, nobody ever ventures down here for more time than absolutely necessary. Which is just silly. There is so much more to fear from the living. Or from daemons. The hospital is both highly lit and warded against those few that prefer the flesh of the dead as hosts.

 

 

But no. Its vengeful ghosts that people fear. She huffs at the absurdity of it.

 

 

She turns on the lights as she goes; they flicker heavily before buzzing on. Far worse than they do upstairs. Probably because of ancient wiring and even more ancient superstition. She herself has never been afraid of the dark and its not the first time she wonders if that’s the trick that has kept her alive this long. But fear and logic are not the same, and while she may not fear the dark she respects the danger it can represent, even down here.

 

 

Especially down here.

 

 

In the last room, furthest from the rest, she flicks on the light and grabs the clipboard hanging on the wall. In this room, bland and unassuming and filled with climate controlled stainless steel, is housed two generations of Kings along with a handful of other notable but similarly unfortunate citizens of the fallen Capitol.

 

 

There are less here now than there were originally. Some have already been claimed by their remaining kin. The Shield has been taken and buried on his ancestral plot by his son and successor, his daughter and their youngest brother. A son in all but name.

 

 

They are all of good stock. She oversees all activity in this part of the morgue and the care with which they treated his body, poor shape that it was in, was proof enough of that. Clarus Amicitia, while perhaps not so lucky in life, is truly blessed in death. May his eternal soul forever rest with honor. And in peace.

 

 

He has long-since been removed from her list and she starts from the top as she finds the corresponding drawers and checks their contents.

 

 

Most of the corpses in here are from a mass grave found during the restoration of Insomnia. Those who could be identified right away were buried on-site or cremated as per family instructions but some, especially nobles or cabinet members whose entire family perished were moved here. To be buried once suitable places were found.

 

 

Some would call it grisly work. And to some degree it is. But these bodies deserve a shred of dignity and she strives to give them that. It’s all she has to give, in the face of their sacrifice.

 

 

Rose sometimes speaks to them. Oh, the look on the eldest Amicitia’s face when she had spoken to his father. She had explained what they were doing and where they were taking him; humbly thanking him for his service and bidding him farewell. The girl had hugged her, silent tears dripping down her face as she hitched out her heartfelt thanks and the youngest boy gave her the sweetest smile.

 

 

What wonderful children. A credit, certainly, to their father and their line.

 

 

As she checks to make sure the containers are in working order, the rate of preservation or decay of the bodies and their overall state including whatever clothing remains, she makes sure to thoroughly note her findings. The stigma that protects the identities of the guests in here also works against them in that maintenance rests almost exclusively on her observations. No one wants to waste resources on the dead when the living has the more urgent need.

 

 

Which might be logical but not exactly moral, considering that death is the inevitable endgame.

 

 

But thankfully the Marshal has promised that any repair to the facilities that is refused by the Board of Directors will be approved and financed by the new governance. More recently, the new King himself has more or less promised the same. She can rest easy knowing her charges will be cared for; a fitting reward for her diligence.

 

 

Carefully she checks each drawer, until she gets to the two names at the bottom.

 

 

These are only listed as abbreviations with their full titles abbreviated as well, in an effort to confuse anyone not familiar with the practice. To most, it would look like a strange code but one only need look at the ancient Sol numbers to know who was whom.

 

 

 

She checks King Regis first, as always.

 

 

 

He, like most of the ones from Insomnia, is in pitiful shape. A skeleton with some flesh still attached. She remembers seeing pictures of him in his youth. He was so handsome, almost beautiful like so many of his line.

 

 

His fine raiment has fared a bit better. She remembers hearing talk that the suits of royals had magic woven into them and she can believe it. It’s almost a shame that they can’t put it in a museum but she can think of no better burial shroud than this fine mage cloth.

 

 

“Hello, your Majesty. I’m sorry for disturbing you, but I’ll only be a moment.”

 

 

She does her usual checks. Regis is no more worse for wear than when he came here. He still carries a faint smell of the earth in which they found him—they all do, but she detects no changes and that means the equipment which houses him is working as intended.

 

 

“Thank you for your patience, your Majesty. Good night to you.”

 

 

 

She closes his drawer carefully and with reverence. And turns to the last.

 

 

This one… This one is actually hard for her. King Noctis, unlike the others is wholly intact. He was sent to her less than 24 hours after his demise and truly looks to be asleep. His youth makes her _ache_.

 

 

Still, she has a duty to perform and she turns away as she opens the drawer to take a fortifying breath.

 

 

 

And stares down into an empty space.

 

 

 

 

And stares.

 

 

 

 

And _stares_.

 

 

 

Shaking herself, she checks the list and confirms this is his container. Not that she needs to. The numbers don’t change because the bodies don’t _move_. They only leave and never come back as people come to claim them.

 

 

Because she’s thorough, she checks every drawer, even the ones she’s already marked off. Then she does the same for the other storage rooms. The King of Light is nowhere to be found.

 

 

She doesn’t panic because she’s too old to panic. There are two explanations she can immediately think of. Either he was picked up and she wasn’t informed (which is highly unlikely, but the better situation) or someone found out he was here and they took him.

 

 

 

Rose can only pray it’s the first.

 

 

There’s no service in the basement. Too much metal and stone so she makes her way back up as quickly as she can. As soon as she’s out of the elevator, she goes to the nursing station. Finds an unoccupied room by looking at the floor listing.

 

 

As soon as she closes and locks the door, she retrieves the phone the Marshal has given her. There is only one number programmed in it.

 

 

“ _Leonis_.”

 

 

She tries to modulate her tone, but the potential disaster of the situation has given her nerves a shake and she unfortunately sounds a little breathless.

 

 

“Marshal Leonis, this is Rose Fionnelli of Lestallum General Hopsital. -Have you sent any of your people to retrieve King Noctis?”

 

 

There is a slight pause, as if the man on the other end is slightly taken aback by her directness. To his credit, he recovers almost instantly. A sharp one, the Marshal.

 

 

“ _No. -What’s your situation, Mother Fionne_?”

 

 

 

She puts a hand to her chest in a futile attempt to calm her now racing heart.

 

 

“The King is _gone_. I was seeing to our special guests but when I got to the young King… -His Majesty, King Regis is undisturbed—as are the others. But King Noctis.. The King of Light is _gone._ ”

 

 

Another beat of silence.

 

 

“ _You’ve checked all the other containers?_ ”

 

 

 

She nods before realizing he can’t see it.

 

 

“Yes. I checked them all. -I can recheck—”

 

 

He stops her before she can begin.

 

 

“ _Do that, but only after we’re done here. This is a very serious matter that would normally warrant my personal attention but… unfortunately I can’t leave my post at the moment. -I’ll be sending someone in my stead. They’ll need access to your files and to whatever surveillance you’ve got running over there. Can you manage that?_ ”

 

 

She considers her options. She’s just a Night Nurse. One of a handful employed here, whose slightly irregular perception of death has gifted her the honor of serving Kings. She has no idea if the hospital has cameras and if it does, where they might be but that boy in there had surely suffered greater uncertainties and yet faced them all. And on his sacrifice did he shed light upon the world.

 

 

Now he is in unknown hands. This cannot be allowed.

 

 

“Whatever it is that must be done, I will do it. I swear it, Marshal. - _Please_ bring him back.”

 

 

He gives her his assurances and an estimated time that his agent will arrive. Rose commits the information to memory; she has a head for such things. Always has.

 

 

 

Only after the call is done, does she allow herself to collapse against the wall and weep.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starting right where we left off really. Happy New Year! I hope you enjoy. (Again, this is only briefly read over. If you spot any grammar stuff, please let me know)

 

 

Dustin Ackers is not easily frustrated, but the situation is testing him; to the point that he can feel every minute of his nearly two-decades of service as it’s chipped away. By sheer magnitude of _bullshit_.

 

 

Lestallum General might be the largest full-capacity medical facility currently in operation, but it’s held together by duct tape and _twine_. And while the finest engineers in Eos keep the medical equipment up and running, its machines that _might_ have been new during the reign of King Mors. The fact that they function _at all_ is a technical marvel, let alone save and support life.

 

 

Dustin is pretty sure the most advanced technology in the entire hospital is his _phone_.

 

 

He lets none of this show however. First, because being frustrated is one thing but reacting to it does not improve the situation at all. And second, because the woman hovering close by is visibly distraught but holding herself together admirably. It would be bad form not to follow suit.

 

 

Dustin has already checked and rechecked her background. Rose Fionnelli is the sole person with direct access to the most recently deceased monarchs of Lucis—one of whom he is here to find. She has no living family, but there is not a single employee in the hospital that won’t vouch for her, though that isn’t surprising. She was hand-picked to care for their most precious dead by Cor Leonis, which is its own endorsement. Like so many of his other talents, his judge of character is often flawless—but Dustin is far too pragmatic to consider her exempt on those merits alone.

 

 

Because Titus Drautos had been a hard lesson in complacency and trust; one that sent many to their graves. -Some in this very room, in fact.

 

 

As he uses a borrowed make-up brush to spread a fine layer of black powder over the steel of the True King’s once resting place, he concedes that he has no real suspicions connected to their late Kings’ caretaker. The evidence may point to her, but motive is the larger factor here and the elderly Nurse has none. -None that he can find, anyway.

 

 

So far she has been more than cooperative. Not only did she gain him access to whatever areas he needed, she has also helped scavenge the various low-tech accoutrements he’s currently using. Including the waste toner he’s using to dust for finger prints.

 

 

Not all by herself of course. But by virtue of knowing who to ask, which has thankfully made this impossible chore into something resembling an actual investigation. Even if just barely.

 

 

He begins to photograph his handiwork. He’s fairly certain most if not all of the prints he’s found belong to Fionelli, but that in itself will make an odd one stand out. He just hopes the camera in his phone will be enough because it’s all he has. He would have raided local law enforcement for a full forensic kit but they can’t risk an information breach. Not yet.

 

 

 

“Mother Fionne, can you open the drawer for me? I’m going to dust inside.”

 

 

She obliges immediately, waiting until he’s moved out of the way a bit. He barely begins to crouch down over the opening when it hits him. He pauses a minute, putting his face all the way inside to confirm.

 

 

“Do you smell that?”

 

 

He leans out of the way so the Nurse can hopefully detect the same thing he is. She bends down and samples the air with caution before her eyes go wide and she straightens abruptly.

 

 

“Flowers?”

 

 

He nods. That’s what he smells too. There’s something on the tip of his brain but first he has to ask…

 

 

“Did you keep flowers in here with him?”

 

 

It’s not an unreasonable assumption. He certainly deserves the honor, but she seemed surprised at the scent of them. Her answer confirms his theory.

 

 

“Oh no. Nothing organic in here, or in any of them. Nothing that could potentially effect decomposition. I don’t understand where that scent would come from. It doesn’t smell like perfume but actual cut flowers. -Do you think it might be from whoever took him?”

 

 

That’s the question isn’t it? The memory that had been niggling at him finally pushes itself forward.

 

 

It’s old and worn. A child’s memory. Slowly, he recalls visiting an ancient Aunt who lived outside the Wall. His mother had wanted her to move to the Capitol and had brought him along as incentive. When they arrived, slightly ahead of schedule, they found her wandering the house; murmuring in a language he’d never heard before. In her hands was a bundle of herbs with a smoldering ember and she moved slowly but with purpose as she wafted the smoke towards the far corners of the room. After, she would do the same with water. Then salt. A flick or a pinch for each corner.

 

 

He’d tugged on his mother’s skirt and asked what the old woman was doing. She explained that she had been performing a blessing; an old rite said to ward a house from daemonic corruption. It was a very real threat that people outside the Wall lived with constantly. Sheltered as he was, he never once entertained the idea that they might be in any danger. Or that the blessing was specifically for them.

 

 

He doesn’t know what happened to her. She didn’t come to move in with them, so he assumes she must have lived the rest of her life outside of protections of Crown City. But what sticks out in his mind; the thing that brought forth the memory in the first place, is what happened once the blessing was finished.

 

 

The entire house was permeated with the smell of fresh flowers. He remembers it clearly because he’d looked all over for the source of it, but found not a single vase or pot from which the scent originated.

 

 

His aunt had noticed his search and chuckled, petting his hair with her knarled hand.

 

_“There are no flowers here, little one. What you smell is proof of the Divine. The gods have blessed this place so that you may be safe here.”_

 

 

The scent in his nose right now is _exactly_ the same as it was then.

 

 

The implication of this is enormous. _Divine Intervention_. But why now? He knows from Cor that there has been the hand of at least one Astral all over Ignis Scientia’s ascension to the throne. A far from kind one, at that. And there’s the return of the Accursed to consider, though the man certainly doesn’t seem to live up to that particular moniker anymore.

 

 

“Mr. Ackers? Is something wrong?”

 

 

 

Shaking himself out of his musings; he bends down to finish his dusting. Best to be thorough, even if it’s pretty much superfluous at this point.

 

 

“I think I might know the culprit behind our missing monarch. It may be little consolation to you, but I can say with certainty that there’s nothing anyone could have done to prevent this.”

 

 

He unfortunately can’t say anything else on the matter; at least, not until he discusses his findings with his fellow Crownsguard. He tells Mother Fionne as much. She looks dismayed, but accepts it with a grim sort of resignation.

 

 

He tries to ease her anxiety but until the King is back in her care, she’ll likely stay worried. There’s little he can do to reassure her; getting him back will be a tall order. -Assuming there’s anything to recover.

 

 

Only the Astrals know for sure, and won’t _that_ make His Majesty happy.

 

 

 

*

 

 

Prompto thinks he might finally be shutting down.

 

 

It’s kind of a relief. He knows he should be more worried that he’s likely a hairsbreadth from brain-death but he has no energy left for caring. He’d burned it off ages ago; mostly after he realized he was stuck here but also pretty much throughout this whole ordeal.

 

 

Cor owes him so, so bad. -He’s going to be foster dad _for life_.

 

 

Questioning Ardyn had turned up nothing. According to him, the Keep had been on autopilot and he’d left with the Crystal as soon as the entertainment was done. He admitted to having no idea how to pilot a craft and once the MT’s started going feral there was no one left to chauffeur. So he _teleported_.

 

 

Because why not? -He can already look like anyone, so why not let him _be anywhere_. That's totally fair, right?

 

 

After learning that tidbit, they realized that the first part of the mission would be finding the stupid thing. Now a huge mobile fortress should be a fairly easy spot, even if it had crashed but Gralea was still stuck in an ice age. Twelve years of snow made for a very effective cover and it had taken some high-tech instruments scavenged by Aranea for them to locate it (which meant she was going to charge a premium but whatever).

 

 

When they finally got a hit, the reason it had all but disappeared off the map became glaringly obvious.

 

 

Zegnautus Keep had indeed crashed, but it hadn’t gone to ground so much as gone _underneath_ it. Part of it was still at surface level but the entire left side and most of the nose section had slid down into some ancient subterranean structure. Later he would find out it was a temple, but in the beginning it was just a huge pain in the ass.

 

 

Because suddenly a salvage run became something more like spelunking and he was so not good with dark, cramped spaces.

 

 

With everything at a steep angle, actually getting anywhere was its own challenge, but eventually they’d found the main controls for the device. It had taken hours to extract only a portion of it, but it was basically just a type of energy field. Once they could analyze the frequency, what they had should be enough.

 

 

It had almost been smooth run; despite the hardships. _Almost._

 

 

Until his climbing rig snapped on the way back up and he’d tumbled down until he hit a breach in one of the walls. Then hit the ground.

 

 

“Still alive, I see. That’s good. I went back as far as I could go but I still didn’t find a way out. -Sorry.”

 

 

His face is kind of numb but he’s pretty sure he’s frowning at the most insincere apology _ever_. When he’d found out he was outside the Keep but still inside the massive, caved-in building, he’d still had hope. That was until Aranea had texted that they didn’t have anything long enough to get him out (thank the gods his phone hadn’t busted; yelling back and forth had been a lesson in futility) and Libertus _couldn’t warp_ because no more Lucii.

 

 

Apparently Ignis hadn’t quite figured out how to reestablish the Glaives, or he had and decided he and Gladio were all the bad ass Lucis needed. Which was probably true, but also _really inconvenient_.

 

 

 

They had sent down emergency rations, a survival kit and his stash box, which he’d forgotten about in the chaos of getting the kids off-ship. It had been hidden in the ceiling tiles above his bunk and Aranea must have known about it because it appeared with a thunk after they’d slid down the other stuff.

 

 

He didn’t want to think about the implications of that. So instead he’d begun looking around, saving the torch in his kit for when the light on his suit went out. Aranea said they were going to have to leave and come back—Libertus offered to try to get to him and stay behind but Prompto could handle any stray daemons and it’d just be more work getting them out, so he’d given that idea a big negative.

 

 

It was hard switching off his phone. The moment Aranea’s ship was out of range, he’d have no signal and he’d need it again for when they came back, but even knowing the logic didn’t stop his hands from squeezing themselves around the case. Yup. -Just him and his brain. Alone. In the dark.

 

 

Awesome.

 

 

“Hey, did you hear me? I said I couldn’t find a way out.”

 

 

He turns to the sound of the voice and croaks out a ‘yeah’ before returning to his introspection. He’d felt it when the ship left and it had taken a large chunk of his remaining hopes with it. He’d let exploration occupy him for as long as he could but it was only slightly warmer down here than it was up above and eventually, he’d needed to huddle up for warmth.

 

 

It was then, shaking and desperately trying to stabilize his core temperature, that he found out he was maybe not as alone as he thought.

 

 

He hears the other man throw himself down next to him. Not close enough to touch or share warmth or anything. They’ve been locked in a weird sort of stand-off since they discovered each other, probably due to Prompto nearly shooting him full of holes in his startlement. But thankfully neither of them was hurt and his new companion had even gone so far as to explain where they are, which is apparently some temple that time forgot.

 

 

Prompto would normally be pathetically grateful for the company, considering the situation, but the dude has been sketchy on the details. Like why he can’t seem to find his way back to the surface, even though it’s obvious he’s knows his way around down here. Or how his gear is totally not adequate for the temperature, but he doesn’t seem to be having any issues staying warm. He’s in what a rich person might consider cold weather gear—a form-fitting coat and pants. Artfully looped scarf and gloves. But no hat or other layers. -Not like Prompto has. He’s about three times his normal size in coats alone. It’s almost like he’s fat again—only not.

 

 

He’d never thought he’d miss it, but he’s totally mourning that extra insulation right now.

 

 

He tilts his head in the other’s direction; barely making out their shape in the shadows of his suit light. It may be dark down here but it hasn’t escaped his notice that the guy is like, _ridiculously_ handsome. All long dark hair and fine features. Like a statue. He keeps leaving and coming back in the guise of trying to find an exit, but honestly? It just feels like he’s _bored_.

 

 

Prompto’s been letting it slide because— _dying_ , but this is some bullshit and he’s not about to go out like some frozen meat popsicle. Not without a fight.

 

 

Squinting at the other man’s profile, he finally decides to go for broke.

 

 

“Hey.”

 

 

 

He hears more than sees the other man shift towards him, his tone all polite inquiry and shit.

 

 

“Yeah? What is it?”

 

 

 

The cold might be slowly killing him but it’s also taken away his ability to angst over the small stuff. Like other people’s feelings. Or self-preservation.

 

 

“So are you going to tell me who you really are, or are you going to keep trying to play the role of ‘Lost Scavenger?’ Because I gotta say, you’re tanking man. -You should probably consider another gig.”

 

 

That seems to grab the other’s attention, because he’s suddenly a lot closer than he was. The light brings his features into sharp relief; his eyes almost black and oddly intense.

 

 

 

“Oh really? Who else would I be then?”

 

 

Prompto frowns. He’s hasn’t really thought of that. He supposes he could be a daemon but he’s never heard of one who could pass for human this good. Or that liked their food frozen.

 

 

He stares at the other man’s unobstructed face for a moment. The straight nose and hooded eyes spark something in his brain. A memory of…

 

 

 _\--unbearable heat; the grips of his pistol slick in his hand. He watches with horror as the Infernian, bored and strangely beautiful, plucks Notics out of the air and brings him to his mouth; biting into him like an_ apple _—_

He blinks. Then attempts to crabwalk backwards because _holy shit_.

 

 

His muscles are too stiff and slow and he just ends up losing heat when he falls on his back. He groans into air so cold it _hurts_ ; each breath is a lung-full of tiny little knives.

 

 

“Dude. Why is it so cold in here? Are you just being a dick? I don’t get it.”

 

 

 

The guy who may or may not be Ifrit, appears at his side. He looks down at him with something resembling interest.

 

 

“The Glacean is killing a whole ecosystem over her ‘woman scorned’ shit, but I’m a dick because you’re _cold_?”

 

 

 

He props himself up. If he’s going to freeze to death anyway, then he’s got no incentive not to give as good as he gets. _Fucker_. -Noct better have a high-five waiting for him on the other side.

 

 

“That’s some slippery moral high-ground from a guy who’s sitting there, _watching me die_. -Didn’t you try do the same thing, only with the _whole planet_?”

 

 

 

The Infernian just arches a brow.

 

 

“Yes but I never pretended to be something I’m not. -Where was she, I wonder, when her little princess was getting stabbed in the guts with a cursed knife?”

 

 

 

And just like that, Prompto is on his feet. He didn’t think anything could make him forget how cold he was. Turns out rage can. -Good to know.

 

 

 

“I don’t know, man but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t sitting there, _watching it happen_.”

 

 

 

The dark-haired, doe-eyed version of what was once a friend of man straightens slowly from where he had crouched next to him. He still looks normal and unassuming but somehow it’s more terrifying than his flaming rage-beast form. He’s not sure why, but he’s suddenly not one hundred percent certain his death will be ice-related.

 

 

“Still whining about that? Alright then. I’m sure you’ve noticed all the braziers around. I’ve seen you try to light one. -You can’t burn just anything in them; they take a special kind of fuel.”

 

 

 

Prompto had tried that before he ever realized anyone was down here. He’d attempted to burn some of the debris laying around but even though the lighter in his kit would light—nothing would catch.

 

 

“If its blood of the unbeliever then I’m screwed because even if I hadn’t seen your flaming naked ass before, you’re _right here_. I totally believe in you. -There is zero choice involved in that.”

 

 

 

He watches the other’s face go slack for a second before he throws his head back and laughs. It rings though the empty space, almost too loud after all the silence.

 

 

When it’s over, the other is wearing a slightly manic smile. Creep factor of ten.

 

 

 

“Oh _spek_ , just for that I’ll give you a hint. You have with you something that will burn nicely in here. -You just have to figure out what it is.”

 

 

 

The anger is starting to fizzle out of him and his body is making it known that it would like to curl up in a ball again, please and thank you. He quickly takes stock of everything he has. There are the rations, which he could probably go a bit without eating but somehow, he doesn’t think the dry, tasteless bars will burn. They barely break down enough for consumption as it is. He rules out the water on principle.

 

 

He can always try it if nothing else works but he’s fairly sure it’s not them.

 

 

Then there’s the survival kit. It’s got vacuum packed bedding, a utility knife, a first aid kit and a rechargeable torch—and the lighter of course. There’s also a couple of rescue flares. It’s all stuff that he sort-of needs but again, he’s pretty sure none of that is worthy fuel for whatever weird magic controls the braziers. He discards that idea too.

 

 

The last thing he has, other than the gear he is wearing is his stash box.

 

 

His stash box just has… junk basically. Trinkets from the road trip up until now. A tab from an Ebony can. A decal from the shop in Hammerhead. An iridescent scale from some monster they defeated. And under the box’s false bottom—photos.

 

 

Something in him clenches at the thought of burning those, and at the same time he realizes that’s exactly what it’s going to take. Because the fuel that lights the fire is _sacrifice._

 

 

He hasn’t looked at them in years. Not since the day he summoned them from Noct’s armiger so his friend could pick one to take with him. As a token. The symbolism had not been lost on him then.

 

 

Once he had chosen, Noct had put his hands over his on the box. The warning clear.

 

 

 _Don’t leave these with me_.

 

 

So he hadn’t. The night before the push into Insomnia, Noctis had offered to return whatever anyone had in storage in his armiger. No one had taken him up on it. -All his negatives were in it. These photos are all that’s left of a time when things had been… not perfect. Not better even. But happy.

 

 

And still he can’t look at them. He knows they’ll tear him apart all over again.

 

 

Even so, they are precious. A record of the life of his best friend. A name that time will forget; that people will eventually take for granted. It’s human nature. If history can forget someone like Ardyn, who saved so many lives at the cost of his own; if they can take for granted the gifts of the Astrals themselves, what chance does the deeds of a single King stand—even if he saved the world?

 

 

The tears on his face are hot. They shouldn’t be. He feels like they should freeze right to his face, but the water that drips from him feels scalding over his chilled flesh.

 

 

“You get it. I thought it would take you longer but bravo. -I hope I don’t have to spell out what happens next.”

 

 

 

Noct would tell him to do it. No question. But that would be because he was alive, to take more pictures with. If he burns these, all that will be left are official photographs that will go in history books. Nothing that shows _Noct_. Just a King with a blurb of facts and dates.

 

 

He had hoped to keep these until he was old. To perhaps look at them again and only feel fondness, once time had worn away some of the pain. But if he doesn’t do something, he’s not sure that day will ever come. And as much as he would like to think that his friend is waiting for him on the other side, he still has people who care about him on _this_ side; people who have lost far too much already.

 

 

Ignis, who had nearly everything stolen from him. Gladio whose guilt still threatens to cripple him. Iris, Talcott, Cor, _his kids_.

 

 

He can’t die here.

 

 

Prompto pries open the box. Carefully removes the smaller inner box. The walk feels like it takes forever, but the closest brazier is really just across the room. He turns the box over the huge stone bowl and watches as his photos slide out in a clump.

 

 

He tries not to look, but the one on top is the picture of them at Hammerhead, posing with the Regalia.

 

 

He focuses on that while his shaking hands try to light the pile. It catches almost immediately. They melt and burn but his eyes never leave the picture of them with the Regalia. He stares as the edges blacken and the emulsion bubbles; committing it to memory even as he knows it’s futile. He had already started to forget what Noct looked like back then. How they all looked.

 

 

Some would call it a mercy, but knowing that he’ll eventually lose the clarity—that the details will soften and distort and just be a series of blurred faces and voices, flashes of emotion…

 

 

This is what destroys him.

 

 

He doesn’t notice the heat and light of the other braziers lighting in tandem. Doesn’t see the Infernian look around in surprise before shooting a speculative gaze back at him. Once his precious memories are nothing but blackened residue, he finds the nearest wall and collapses against it; head between his legs.

 

 

“Well done, _spek_.”

 

 

He doesn’t look up at the praise, if that’s even what it is. He doesn’t _care_. He feels aching and hollow and wonders if death wouldn’t have been better. Then he chides himself because Ignis is probably already flipping out over his predicament and—

 

 

He startles when the solid weight of the Infernian settles next to him; the bastard radiating heat like a _furnace_. He wants to rage again. If he’d have cuddled up sooner, he wouldn’t have had to burn all he had left of Noct.

 

 

He simmers down quickly. He is just too fucking _done_.

 

 

 

They sit in silence for a while before he has to ask.

 

 

“What does speck, mean?”

 

 

 

The Astral gives him an indulgent look.

 

 

“What do you think it means?”

 

 

 

He sighs and lets his head fall back and hit the wall. He’s quite a bit warmer than when he started and the tension is finally starting to leave his locked-up muscles.

 

 

“I… am not playing this game with you. If you don’t want to tell me, fine. -I swear you are just like _him_.”

 

 

He realizes his mistake almost as soon as the sentence finishes. He’s pretty sure Ardyn is a sore subject for the Infernian, based on things he was around for and some he wasn’t. Besithia’s notes were fairly extensive on the subject, considering it was an Astral in his care.

 

 

“Him?”

 

 

“Um. Forget I said anything?”

 

 

He tries not to flinch or cringe from that lizard-like gaze but it is extremely difficult. Like staring down a dragon.

 

 

“ _Spek_ … Don’t hold out on me. Who were you talking about? -Tell me or I’m shutting off the fire and all you just went through will have been for nothing.”

 

 

Well _fuck_.

 

 

“There’s this guy… He’s like.. really old and likes to talk in circles and you kinda reminded me of him, ok?”

 

 

 

The Infernian holds up his hand, which now has no gloves; fingers poised to snap.

 

 

“The name, _spek_. -Last chance.”

 

 

 

Welp. Out of the icebox and into the fire. Or back into the icebox. -Here goes… something.

 

 

“Ardyn. The person I was thinking of is Ardyn. Izunia. Or Lucis Caelum or whatever. -I just call him the Maroon Asshole. But he’s more of a brunet now. So… yeah.”

 

 

He expects there to be some kind of retribution but the Infernian just laughs and says:

 

 

“Oh. That guy. -There’s actually a story behind that, but you wouldn’t understand it if I told you.”

 

 

 

That’s fine by him. He’s not really interested in learning any weird backstory—he’s been traumatized enough by Verstael Besithia and his Really Detailed Reports.

 

 

Normally he isn’t petty, but he can’t help but mention:

 

“You… know that guy is still around, right?”

 

 

 

The Infernian looks tremendously smug.

 

 

“Oh yes. -And for good reason.”

 

 

 

Prompto can think of no reason, good or otherwise, for Ardyn’s continued existence and he tells the other as much. This earns him another chuckle.

 

 

“Obviously I’m not thinking of the world in general, but it’s good for _me_ because I know what he wants. What he _aches_ for. -Too bad that bitch doesn’t get to die until I say.”

 

 

He thinks about that for a moment, before extending a hand to the smirking fire god. Said god doesn’t move to take it, but looks down at it gamely; like he’s not sure if Prompto knows what he’s asking for.

 

 

“-Prompto Argentum. Lets be friends.”

 

 

This earns more laugher and instead of taking his proffered hand, the Infernian snakes an arm around his waist; pulling him closer to that wonderful warmth. Prompto wants to treat it like a Bad Touch, because _boundaries_ , but he doesn’t like.. pull him into his lap or anything. Just squishes him close like besties trying to leech body heat.

 

 

Aaaand now he’s mad again.

 

 

 

Eventually the see-saw of emotions, along with the stress of the day must put him to sleep because the next thing he knows he’s waking up in the dark to someone shouting his name.

 

 

“ _Prompto_!”

 

 

 

Its Ignis. He sits up, looking around as best he can. His suit light is out so he paws around for the survival kit and finds the torch.

 

 

“Iggy! I’m here!”

 

 

He shines the light around in an arc and see’s the answering flicker moving towards him. A blue flash later and Ignis is _right there._

 

 

 

“Prompto, are you alright? Are you hurt anywhere?”

 

 

He takes stock of himself as Ignis breaks a potion over him. He’s actually fine. He’s not even _cold_. The fires are out but they must have went out recently because he’s just as warm as he was when he’d been mashed up against the Infernian.

 

 

 

“I’m ok Iggy. Really. -Can we please just get out of here?”

 

 

 

At this, the other man pauses in his checking for injuries to look… _shifty_.

 

 

“Well yes, that’s why I’m here. -You see-“

 

 

 

Oh no. Oh _Hell_ no.

 

 

 

He tries to get out of the other’s reach but Ignis is well aware of his aversion to instant warp and latches on as soon as he sees the look on his face. A second later reality _wrenches_ and he’s looking at the deck plating of Aranea’s ship as he does his very best to puke up his stomach. As he gags, he thinks he hears her order the King of Lucis to go back for his kit which he apparently does if the flash of warp is any indication.

 

 

He closes his eyes as he attempts to breathe past the nausea. When he opens them, there are shoes in his vision.

 

 

 

“My, saved by the King _again_. That’s two for two now, isn’t it?”

 

 

 

He makes a disgusted sound. Not just at the gross taste of bile in his mouth but at the voice of his least favorite person in existence. He looks up and up until he sees the oddly similar visage that his brain firmly tells him is not the Accursed, which means the glamour is up.

 

 

_Doctor Mirin._

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

Oh that _look_.

 

 

He knows he shouldn’t bait the boy so much but that baleful glare is such a _delight_. Still, he’s been brought here for a reason so he gives the young man a cursory look over before tugging him to his feet. He moves them towards the ship’s small infirmary; hopefully to give a more thorough examination away from the sharp eyes of the Commodore and her equally sharp Second’s4.

 

 

 

The boy tries to twist out of his grip, but he holds fast.

 

 

“None of that now. The King has bade me to ensure your overall health and I intend to do so, but not here and certainly not in front of the Commodore. -I’m sure you understand.”

 

 

An annoyed grunt is his reply. Once inside the room, he releases his charge as he locks and wards the space; dropping the glamour so he can see the younger man with a different set of eyes. Immediately, he notices something peculiar.

 

 

The boy is practically _brimming_ with power. -A power not his own and certainly not of the Crown.

 

 

 

He looks in the medical fridge and finds a small cache of water bottles. He tosses one to his glowering patient who looks at it like a grenade before tending to his mouth and throat.

 

 

“Tell me, does it hurt anywhere? Do you feel anything out of the ordinary beyond your adverse reaction to teleportation?”

 

 

The other finishes off the water before replying.

 

 

“Um no. I’m fine. -I already told Igg—his Majesty that I’m ok. So you’re good. Job done. -Bye now.”

 

 

He indulges in the small amusement of watching the other try to get past his wards. The magic within him certainly reacts to the spells but does not allow him to breach them. While he briefly struggles with the lock, Ardyn searches about and finally finds a thermal blanket. He presents it to the other, who doesn’t even try to take it.

 

 

“Well at least use this to warm up. Injuries are easy for me to treat but sickness can be tricky.”

 

 

The boy is apparently not having it. He abandons his futile quest to leave and instead turns to him with a snarl.

 

 

“Look, I’m not even cold ok? I don’t need… whatever you were brought here to do. -I’ll tell him you did what you were supposed to, now _let me out_.”

 

 

That last part was spoken with such authority, it almost sounded like it came from his predecessor. _Almost_.

 

 

 

“Not cold? I was to understand it was well below freezing down there. If you can’t feel the cold, then you must be in worse shape than I imagined.”

 

 

 

It’s a ploy of course, but before the other can protest he latches on to a wrist and worms his fingers past the layers to actual skin. -The boy was not lying. His body temperature is actually slightly higher than normal and considering he just spent nearly twenty-four hours in freezing conditions, that is no small feat.

 

 

The wrist is yanked out of his hand and the body it belongs to is suddenly one with the door; cradling the limb as if tainted.

 

 

“You have ten seconds before I start screaming and I don’t even care what it looks like, man.”

 

 

 

Ardyn cocks his head to the side because that… is _adorable_.

 

 

“You realize no one can hear you in here? I’m quite aware of the Commodore’s proclivities and I was instructed to protect this identity at all costs. -Would you care to explain how you’ve developed an immunity to hyperthermia or shall I just share my findings with his Majesty and you can sort it out with him?”

 

 

That seems to pierce the veil of dislike enough for him to consider his actions. He looks at him wearily.

 

 

“Maybe. If you tell me something first. -You like, know a lot of languages, right? Old ones and stuff?”

 

 

 

Ardyn does indeed know quite a few languages passably well. Only one of them is currently spoken, however. He’s not sure how that’s relevant to the situation but he’s game to find out.

 

 

“I do indeed. How can my knowledge assist you?”

 

 

 

The boy looks pensive a moment.

 

 

“What does speck mean?”

 

 

 

He blinks at him. What a non-sequitur. Surely he can’t not know the meaning of that. What are they even teaching in school, nowadays?

 

 

“We’ll it means something tiny and insignificant. -Why? Has someone referred to you in that way, because I would assume you’re at an age where you can handle—”

 

 

The other interrupts, obviously frustrated.

 

 

“- _No_. Not ‘speck.’ _Speck_.”

 

 

 

It sounds like he’s trying to affect a certain pronunciation or accent, and finally something clicks in his brain.

 

 

“Do you perhaps mean, _spek_?”

 

 

 

Recognition is instant and the boy drops his defensive stance for one of excited confirmation.

 

 

“Yes! Yes. That’s it. What does it _mean_?”

 

 

 

He wants to ask where he’s heard that word but he needs to tread lightly. Because while he knows the meaning, the language from whence it hails is not one that is spoken by humans. It is the language of the gods. The Astrals themselves.

 

 

“It means ‘spark.’ -Might you tell me where you heard it?”

 

 

 

The other looks to be working out the meaning within the context in which it was delivered. After a moment he seems to remember he was asked a question.

 

 

“Um no. I don’t think so. -I’ll take my chances with the King, thanks.”

 

 

He folds his arms over his chest, back to the door. Ardyn could probably press the issue, but its obvious now where the power within the boy has come from. What it really is. _A blessing_. And going by the word and the effect on the body, he can fairly guess which Astral has granted it.

 

 

Besides, he knows what temple lies beneath them. He’d just assumed the other’s destruction had been complete. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that the gods are made of sterner stuff than their physical bodies suggest. So it was with the Glacean. -So it is with himself, apparently.

 

 

 

He reapplies his glamour and dispels the wards.

 

 

“Very well. Off you go then. I’ll be sure to tell his Majesty about your clean bill of health.” _Among other things_.

 

 

 

The boy doesn’t seem to want him at his back so his exit is a bit of a dance. Ardyn is not surprised at all to see the King waiting right outside. -He likely felt the wards and while he is trusted to use his healing skills as necessary, the rest is a bit of a gray area. He ignores the pointed look and follows after them at a comfortable distance.

 

 

What an interesting development. He wonders what the King will think of his report. Or what the Infernian was thinking when he blessed the boy. And ‘spark.’ A term of endearment perhaps?

 

 

He certainly still views his continued existence as a curse. -But at least it isn’t _dull_.

 

 

4 Second in Command. Of which there are two (Biggs and Wedge).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm fairly certain this is not the second to last chapter but we'll see how far into the plot we get in the next. The story length will likely be... lengthened.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Story length has been changed. I think we're looking at two more chapters and an Epilogue before we get into the other half of the story (you read that right--half). So... this is a series now.

Ignis had once heard that bad news comes in threes.

 

 

Probably from his mother, sometime in the nebulous _before_ when his life had not yet revolved around another. It sounds like her; she had maintained an old-world view on life, even though she’d been born and bred in the heart of a modern metropolis. To his shame, he’s not sure what’s become of her or his father. His uncle’s remains had been found in the Citadel mass grave, cut down like the rest. If by some chance they remained in the Capitol after the initial siege, their fate was all but sealed.

 

 

Considering his status now and having heard nothing since well before Insomnia’s fall, he has to assume the worst.

 

 

 

Finding the Accursed still alive had been the first strike, but worse were the allegations he brought with him. That the so-called prophecy had been fulfilled not by the players in attendance but by the very beings who brought it about in the first place. By the Astral’s own machinations had it been led it to its inevitable conclusion.

 

 

The realization of it still makes him _seethe_.

 

 

The second strike was nearly losing Prompto in an ill-conceived attempt to shield he (and to a lesser extent Ardyn) from the Crystal’s influence—which, as it turns out was not even entirely necessary. According to Prompto’s testimony, the Infernian claimed responsibility for Ardyn’s resurrection and had no intention of allowing him the release of death any time soon. And while having a way to block the Crystal was by no means worthless, it was certainly not worth Prompto’s _life_ , which he had explained very evenly to a stone-faced Cor who had arranged the entire thing without his input. -It’s the first time he’s ever been genuinely angry at the man.

 

 

National security is under the Marshal’s direct purview but he overstepped this time and he knew it. Especially with Prompto now carrying the Infernian’s blessing, or at the very least some of his power. Ardyn had called it a blessing, and the younger man seemed no worse for wear for his time with the unpredictable Astral but for all they knew, the fire-god was simply waiting for an opportune moment to _blow them up_.

 

 

Possibly for comedic effect, if Prompto’s insight to the other’s personality is to be believed.

 

 

He hated the uncertainty, but there was nothing he could do. Ardyn was monitoring the situation at his request (and because it was now relevant to his own) but he’s not sure there’s anything the other man could do if the worst should happen. -Beyond survive on Ifrit’s sufferance.

 

 

Which brings him to the third and final strike.

 

 

Before him is some of his most trusted: advisors, staff, _friends_. He has called them together because during his debriefing with Cor over the Zegnautus fiasco, the Marshal had dropped a bombshell.

 

 

Noct’s body is missing.

 

 

He’s known where it was for some time, yet he has not had the chance to visit. He intended to, even before the Crystal had restored his sight, but circumstances and his own reluctance prevented it. Still, it had been somewhat of a comfort to know that his remains were being properly cared for until he could arrange a final resting place. A duty he would bear with a heavy heart, but also with the all the care and respect it deserved.

 

 

Now that comfort is gone. As is any hope of performing that last rite; one that the King of Light so deserves. That _Noctis_ deserves.

 

 

He’s heard Dustin’s report. He wants to think it a flight of fancy, a mistake, but the alternative is so much _worse_. Because even after all he’s endured at the Astral’s hands, he would trust them to care for their fallen champion more than some vile body-snatcher.

 

 

Ignis is glad he had a very light breakfast today, because the thought of someone cutting up their King for souvenirs makes him violently ill—it’s taking everything he has to keep himself under control as it is.

 

 

He asks a question of the room, one that’s been on the tip of his tongue since he heard the news.

 

 

“Does anyone think it’s retaliation? -For the Device?”

 

 

 

It’s quiet for a moment before Dustin responds. He has the best view of the situation, even if his findings cannot be substantiated. The man’s instincts are impeccable and Ignis knows before he was spotted for Crownsguard, Dustin Ackers had been on the fast track to becoming a Crown City Detective.

 

 

“I can’t completely rule it out, but the containers are only checked once a month to keep the contents as pristine as possible. There’s actually no telling how long he’s been missing since the last check. -I assumed it couldn’t be too long due to the scent still lingering inside but.. Well.. I know it sounds like I’m crazy anyway—”

 

 

He interrupts because it doesn’t sound crazy. Just improbable and he’ll take that over theft by unscrupulous unknowns.

 

 

“No. Don’t start second-guessing yourself now. Especially when that is likely the best-case scenario. -Anyone else have any ideas or suppositions? It’s an open floor.”

 

 

 

More silence passes before the Marshal, off to the side and being extra-quiet due being in the proverbial dog house sighs and speaks up.

 

 

“If you’re going to go with the Astral theory, then why are we wasting our time here? You can take the Bladekeeper’s Trial and get some answers right from the source. -Four Glaives did it, I know four of us can.”

 

 

 

He blinks. He was not aware that was an option and he says as much. Cor explains the situation in Angelgard before Noct’s return. How the Draconian had let no one step foot upon the island until they had proven themselves against him—specifically the remaining Glaives, whom he blamed for the betrayal and loss of Regis.

 

 

Due to Gentiana’s prediction of the time and place of Noctis’ reappearance, the Trial became something of a necessity and thankfully with Libertus at the front, a handful of the King’s finest had won.

 

 

“There’s no need for such a trial now. The Kingsglaive remain in name only and their victory has obviously forgiven their trespasses. -Why would he grant _us_ such a thing?”

 

 

Cor looks at him askance, like it’s obvious.

 

 

“Because you’re the _King_. -I don’t think his Patronage ended just because the Caelum line did. In any case, it’s better than sitting here, guessing; especially considering we have zero leads at the moment that aren’t thirty-year old memories of something _smelled_.”

 

 

Dustin frowns at this and opens his mouth to comment but Ignis stops the squabble before it can start.

 

 

“Please don’t. -Marshal, that was out of line. I realize this is personal for all of us, but I really need for everyone to try and keep it together because I’m barely keeping myself together at this point and have nothing left for the rest of you. -Can we do that?”

 

 

Cor sighs again and apologizes to his fellow Crownsguard who easily accepts. They lapse into silence again.

 

 

“The Caelum line hasn’t completely ended though, has it?”

 

 

This from Gladio. And he’s right of course. Technically Ardyn is the last of the line; which is ironic considering he is also one of the first.

 

 

That means he’ll probably going to have to be involved in whatever they come up with. Oh, he’ll _love_ that.

 

 

 

“No, it isn’t and we may very well end up using that to our advantage. -Marshal how close are we to having the jamming device operational?”

 

 

 

Cor straightens where he was leaning against the wall. Ignis hates being at odds with him and hopes that they can firmly put the last few days behind them—for the sake of finding Noct at least.

 

 

“I haven’t gotten a status report yet today, but Aranea picked up some engineers in Lestallum. She and the Kid have got a real think-tank going on over there. -I think it’s safe to say it’s going take some time. Probably more than you’re going to want to wait—assuming we’re on the same page.”

 

 

He’s pretty sure they are. In light of the direction they are going, he’d been hoping to use it to block the Crystal during the inevitable battle. While it largely appears autonomous, the Draconian seems to have a special connection to it. Perhaps the field would block his link to it as well—though it’s uncertain if that would give them an edge or not.

 

 

“That is unfortunate but you’re correct in your assumption. The longer we wait, the less likely we are to recover anything—be it Astral or Criminal involved. I suppose all that’s left is assembling a team. -Can I count on your support Marshal?”

 

 

He frowns at that.

 

 

“Not until the Kid gets back. I made a promise to him at the start of this mess and I can’t back out of it now. I imagine it’ll be you and Gladiolus—and the Good Doctor, thought that’ll take some convincing. -You can call on Libertus, too. He’s faced the Draconian and won. He’ll do so again at your word.”

 

 

Ignis does not like that idea. The Glaives that won the trial did so with the power of the Lucii behind them. With the sigils inactive, they are less protected and Ignis does not have the knowledge to empower them once more.

 

 

Gladio speaks up again.

 

 

“Damn right it’ll be me. We’ve got some time to figure out a fourth. -You sure you want the Asshole in on this, though?”

 

 

Ignoring the man’s extraordinary healing abilities, Ardyn is the last of Caelum blood. If they’re going to make a plea to the Astral who had, for millennia given the Lucis Caelums his stewardship, then having him as an extra bargaining chip can’t hurt—assuming it still carries some value.

 

 

“Want is a strong word. More like it’s the logical choice. -And a bit of poetic justice.”

 

 

He stands from where he has been reclining against the edge of his desk. The others straighten as he does; likely sensing a dismissal.

 

 

“Marshal, let me know if there’s any word from Prompto or Aranea. As for the rest of you, I know it’s a lot to ask with all the work you’re already doing but please; keep an ear to the ground. If this lead doesn’t bear fruit then I fully expect to leave no stone unturned until we’ve recovered our King. -Thank you for your time.”

 

 

They bow, some shaking his hand as they leave. He makes sure to give Dustin his personal thanks, because his observations have given him hope in a situation where there is very little to be had. Cor is one of the last to leave and he gives his shoulder a firm squeeze, probably the closest thing the man gives to a hug. It makes something inside of him unclench ever so slightly.

 

 

When it’s finally just he and Gladio, he let’s himself slump a little. He’s not really had time to process this. Just react. He walks over to his office window, where pale gold sunlight is filtering in through the blinds. Leans his head against the glass.

 

 

Moments later, he is surrounded by strong arms as his Shield offers the comfort of his body.

 

 

“We will get him back.”

 

 

 

Ignis says the words without inflection because it’s not a promise. Just a statement of fact. Gladio tucks his face in next to his so he can feel it when he speaks right next to his skin.

 

 

“I know.”

 

 

 

And just for a moment, the two of them are a silent oasis.

 

 

The calm before the storm.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

Ardyn has never been so bored in his _life_.

 

 

And that’s saying something, seeing as he languished in captivity with only his mind for company for nearly two thousand years. At least then he could escape inside a memory or some other flight of fancy. -There are no such comforts here.

 

 

No, here he must practice constant vigilance.

 

 

Around the Commodore, he wears the glamour like armor. She’s far too clever and knows him well enough that one slip could show his hand. A word. A gesture. _Anything._

 

 

Should he try to lose himself in his thoughts, his body could very well betray him. With the King, all it had taken was his voice. Thankfully, that hasn’t seemed to tip off anyone so far—he’s taken extra care to suppress his natural inflection so as not to arouse suspicion.

 

 

Subterfuge has never been his strong point. Playing Doctor Mirin for his staff is easy because he doesn’t have to hide anything. None of them have ever laid eyes on the Chancellor of Niflheim let alone heard him _speak_. This, however… This is _torture_.

 

 

It’s not like he goes out of his way to stand out. It just seems to come naturally to him, and he wants to curse the King for sticking him here because this is a special kind of Hell. One of literally _his own making_.

 

 

“Afternoon, Doctor.”

 

 

He nods in greeting to one of Aranea’s minions. Biggs? Or Wedge? He knows they wear different colors but he can never tell them apart unless someone says their name in passing. It’s day three of their collective head-scratching at the scraps recovered from Zegnautus and he’s just about milked all the entertainment from his little blond charge and he honestly would like to die now. -Right this second would be _superb_.

 

 

There are no takers, of course. Oh, if only the Shield was here. His wrath would be most welcome.

 

 

A sound distracts him. It takes him a moment to realize it’s coming from himself. Specifically from his crown-issued phone. He pats at his clothes until he locates the device.

 

 

He doesn’t recognize the number, but then he’s not quite figured out how to set names to them. It can only be one of a handful of people, generally high-ranking and slightly neurotic—and a welcome distraction either way.

 

 

“This is Doctor Mirin.”

 

 

 

He immediately recognizes the voice of the King himself.

 

 

_“Doctor, are you in a secure location?”_

 

 

 

He doesn’t have to look to know he is in a public access walkway. Unless it’s time to eat, sleep or check in on the boy, Ardyn has little to do and the women here are _bold_. He’s been propositioned no less than four times and he’s not sure how to explain that two-thousand years of trauma have likely made him impotent without it sounding like an obvious lie.

 

 

He’s fairly certain he’s correct about that. Each time it was a glistening, sweat-limned young woman who was mostly naked under her thermals. Though he considers himself spoken for, the body wants what it wants and they stirred not so much as a hint of interest; fresh and lovely though they were.

 

 

“Not as such, no. -I suppose this conversation will require one?”

 

 

 

The King confirms his suspicions and he looks around. Aranea’s vessel, much like Lestallum itself, is like a rabbit warren and he’s no closer to knowing his way around than when he arrived here, days ago. He jogs to catch up to the man who had just greeted him in passing. Thankfully, he hadn’t gone far.

 

 

“Pardon me, but could you direct me to the nearest restroom?”

 

 

 

He listens closely as the man describes the location and he makes his way there after giving his thanks. He considers it a personal achievement to find it on the first try, though not entirely in a timely manner. As soon as he confirms he’s alone, he wards the space for privacy and reports back to the King.

 

 

“We are as secure as possible at the moment. -Now what can I do for you, your Majesty?”

 

 

 

As it turns out the young man has disturbing news. Dear Noct is missing from his temporary resting place and signs point to divine interference. The King intends to challenge the Draconian for information on his whereabouts and since it’s been revealed that the Bladekeeper does not, in fact hold the keys to Ardyn’s earthly existence, his presence as a healer is required.

 

 

 

Well then.

 

 

“Loathe as I am to leave this current project, what sort of danger do you think you’ll be facing? Minor bodily injury or something closer to imminent death and/or dismemberment?”

 

 

There is a pause.

 

 

 _“You almost sound excited. -You’re in one of_ those _moods, aren’t you?”_

 

 

 

He politely refrains from reminding His Majesty that he can always be counted on to welcome death but has been brought low by his most current circumstances which are the direct result of the King’s placement. He knows he’s really here to test the effectiveness of the jamming device once it’s brought online rather than to assure the safety of those who are working on it (though he’s expected to do that as well) but after all the excitement of the rescue and Ifrit’s sudden reappearance, all of this waiting around is so horribly _tedious_.

 

 

He tells himself that he doesn’t miss his staff or his place among them in his fledgling department, but he suspects it’s a lie.

 

 

 

Instead he asks: “How are you holding up, your Majesty?”

 

 

 

A longer pause this time.

 

 

_“I’m… I don’t know… No one has asked me that yet. -As well as can be expected, I suppose.”_

 

 

 

That makes him frown heavily. No one has _asked_? He’s well aware of how close the other man was to Noctis. Far closer than King and Chamberlain. He assumes the Shield at least has offered some comfort, for they were close as well. But still…

 

 

The King often comes to him in the mornings to share a cup of coffee. It is a poorly-concealed means of checking up on him, but Ardyn is mostly charmed by it; even though they both must play their roles in front of whoever else is on duty at the time. It is far more comfortable than the script he must follow now, and part of him looks forward to the awkward little meetings, despite the fact that he very much wishes he weren’t around for them. Generally speaking, of course.

 

 

 

“I am appalled that no one has offered condolences or sympathies. –I assumed you knew most of your staff somewhat personally.”

 

 

This time he doesn’t miss a beat.

 

 

 

_“I do. No one has offered any sympathies because as far as most of us are concerned, we haven’t lost anything. Not yet. -How soon can you make ready?”_

He respects the sentiment but it’s still appalling. Being King is basically being a glorified care-giver and yet so often the King himself is expected to appear above all weakness. The boy seems to embody that particular sentiment to his own disadvantage. -They’ll have to work on that.

 

 

 

For now, however, he’ll have to look after him in a more direct way.

 

 

“Might you tell me where this epic battle will take place? It may determine my needs.”

 

 

 

When the King says it’s Angelgard, he’s not exactly surprised. Of course they would battle on the grounds of his eternal suffering. He’d barely been lucid when the Empire had removed him from his prison there, but he told himself that he would die content if the dust of that place never graced his feet again.

 

 

_“Doctor, are you there?”_

 

 

He winces when he realizes he’s paused too long. He offers his reassurance, knowing full well the King has taken note of his lapse and will likely attempt to suss out the reason for it.

 

 

Ardyn has everything he needs in his Armiger, save for clothing. -He has that too, but he can’t be seen wearing clothes with no discernable origin so he has had to buy some locally. He tells the King as much.

 

 

Ignis instructs him to remain on standby but confirms that the time of battle will come swiftly. While he had been excited for a break in the tedium, the fact that the theater is the very place he was left to rot has stolen some of its appeal.

 

 

When he finally hangs up and leaves the bathroom, he notices the man who had given him directions loitering around, in view of the door. He gives Ardyn a cheeky salute before sauntering off, probably to inform the Commodore about his odd comings and goings. Or not-goings, as it were.

 

 

He sighs. It’s just as well that he’s been swept up into the Crown’s drama once more because it appears the jig is very nearly up.

 

 

-Oh, damn the woman anyway.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

Gladiolus doesn’t like this. Not one bit.

 

 

 

It’s not the upcoming battle. He’s not exactly looking forward to it and he likes the fact that they’re taking Ardyn even _less_ , but he knows there’s no talking the King out of it. He can see the logic from a tactical standpoint, but he still thinks placing any sort of trust on the man a bad idea. Thankfully he is fully prepared to split the smarmy fucker in half the second he steps out of line. -And he’s walking a fine one already, by pretty much everyone’s standards.

 

 

But it’s not that. Something just… isn’t right about all this.

 

 

Things are not adding up. If what Ardyn said about the Lucii is true, if they took Ignis’ sight and his memory so he couldn’t undermine the prophecy… If what he had come up with was truly a threat to it… Then what in the Hell are they about to walk into?

 

 

It feels a lot like a trap.

 

 

 

Like something is calling them out. Especially after Ignis had decided not to pursue justice for himself, for all of his suffering; instead putting it behind him so he could rule. Rebuild. Not only Eos, but also himself. -But fate seems to have other plans. And it knows, like so many that are close to him, that the King’s ultimate weakness is and always will be Noctis.

 

 

 

Cor suddenly presses him hard and he can feel the clang of their blades all the way up his arms.

 

 

“Pay attention. Neither of us have time for this. -And you obviously need it.”

 

 

 

He doesn’t even frown at the jab because it’s true. It had taken quite a bit of schedule swapping for them to get even this short amount of time in and here he is filling it with piss-poor performance. He concentrates on the fight for a while longer but his brain keeps tugging him inward. To the steady feeling of _wrongness_.

 

 

 

It feels like an hour, but really it’s probably less than a minute before the Immortal has him on his ass.

 

 

“C’mon Gladio. You’re better than this.” Cor settles down next to him with a grunt. “Alright. -What’s eating you? You haven’t been this uncoordinated since before we found the King.”

 

 

 

He sighs as he rubs at the muscles in his neck.

 

 

“It’s just… I don’t know if I can explain it properly. But I keep wondering if this is how my dad felt the day Insomnia fell. -There’s no way Regis didn’t tell him what was coming. I’m pretty sure it’s the only reason that Jared was able to get Iris and Talcott out.”

 

 

 

He stares hard at the mat, the grief welling in him. There had been no time to mourn. Not really. But even after putting his father to rest it was still there. A vice around his heart, ready to squeeze the life from him at moment’s notice.

 

 

“He had to know that there was no turning back. -That there was no real chance of winning. The closest thing I’ve come to it is letting Noct walk away to fight his own battle. But this is different. This isn’t about fate or a prophecy or saving the world. It feels like… a foregone conclusion. Like the battle is already lost and we’re just going through the motions.”

 

 

 

The Marshal is quiet for a moment, thinking.

 

 

“Does that really matter though, when it’s all said and done? -Does it change what you’re going to do or how hard you’re going to fight?”

 

 

 

He frowns.

 

 

“No. But if he were able, I’m pretty sure Noctis would tell us not to do this over his literally dead body. -I want whatever’s left of him to be safe, but its like someone is using him as a lure and I can’t even begin to figure out to what end.”

 

 

 

He gives Cor an even stare.

 

 

“Ignis has been through enough. We all have, but he’s had the worst of it. He’s not going to let this go and there’s nothing I can do to change his mind. Part of me doesn’t even _want_ to. -I just… I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something else going on that we’re not seeing. Something _big_.”

 

 

 

The Immortal grimaces in sympathy.

 

 

“Welcome to my life, kid. -It’s always something big. Sometimes in a good way but more often than not its _bad_. The best you can do is never forget who you are and who you’re fighting for. -If you never lose sight of that, then you can face just about anything—no matter the circumstances.”

 

 

Cor stands and holds out his hand. He reaches up to clasp it and startles when the Marshal hefts him up with more strength than his frame suggests.

 

 

“That sounds like some generic, rookie pep talk _crap_ but somehow I feel better.”

 

 

 

That earns him a chuff and the brandished tip of a sword.

 

 

“You want better advice? Knock me down. -Then we’ll talk.”

 

 

 

The grin on his face feels good and the weight of his broadsword even better. He lowers himself into a stance. This has always been the easy part. -He’s just making it hard by over-thinking. The Marshal was right about one thing. Whatever is waiting for them in Angelgard won’t change anything on Gladio’s end.

 

 

“Deal.”

 

 

 

He’ll live and die a _Shield_.

 

 

 

*

 

 

Aranea is not entirely sure of the cause but there’s definitely a buzz in the air—and not just static emissions from the Zegnautus device. To be fair, she’s far more in the know than _most_ people, she’s just not sure what to do with some of it at the moment. Which is far more irritating than it ought to be.

 

 

It’s not her fault really, that Scientia knows her so well.

 

 

 

So well, in fact, that part of her payment was information of a highly secret and personal nature. Well, more like an advance considering there’s more work attached to it. The King and a small retinue will soon require transport to Angelgard. Now that the island’s cover as a forbidden holy place has been blown, there’s no need to try and beat the current. They can just fly over with a drop-ship. _Her_ drop-ship.

 

 

“Lady A, the Doctor’s on the move again.”

 

 

 

She acknowledges her subordinate but ultimately waves him off. There’s something far more important than a suspicious Lucian doctor for him to look into. -Namely a missing King.

 

 

“Forget about him for now. -I need you to do something else for me. I want you to sniff around Lestallum General. Use whatever sources we have to find out what’s been coming out of there other than patients. -Any vehicle capable of transporting a body within the last month, I want it’s plates.”

 

 

She frowns. The King of Light had been fairly short-statured; barely taller than her. Pretty much any vehicle could transport him, if he was laid out in the backseat.

 

 

“A body? -Is there someone specific you’re looking for?”

 

 

The new King may have imparted this news to her but it is still on a very need-to-know basis. While she trusts her two cohorts implicitly, in this case caution is the better part of valor.

 

 

“Yes. I’m looking for plates. -Go get me some, will you?”

 

 

Wedge makes an annoyed sound but gives her a waive that vaguely resembles a salute, before stalking off to do her bidding. She’s glad he and Biggs had no real interest in commercial endeavors because they could have been serious business rivals with their fleets behind them.

 

 

As it is, the bulk of their armada was divvied up amongst those who could actually sort of fly the damn things and most became small-time salvagers or transporters working independently. -Some actually followed them right back to her, effectively making her the big fish. Some might even say, a shark.

 

 

 

She wants to believe that it was cleverness that led her through the darkness and left her standing on the other side, but really it was a lot of luck and a refusal to let other people win.

 

 

 

Now that she has diverted resources to more important matters, Aranea can personally look into this so-called ‘Doctor’ who suspiciously resembles a certain Chancellor. Oh, his hair is different and his eyes are blue and he doesn’t talk quite right, but she she’ll eat her mask if he’s not hiding _something_.

 

 

Something the King might need to know for his own safety.

 

 

It’s about time she chatted him up herself. -He’s a bit of an elusive beast, usually skulking about by himself, but he seems to avoid the city proper for reasons she’s hasn’t quite worked out yet. At first she thought duty, but even the most stalwart individuals need a break and it’s obvious he’s not even close to someone like Gladio’s level of commitment.

 

 

If he’s not in the infirmary, puttering around and getting in her own medic’s way he’s usually just walking around aimlessly or in his quarters napping. Surely the King has offered to put him up in a proper hotel. Maybe even the Lavelle. -But he prefers the tiny cabin he’s been given as a courtesy.

 

 

His _private_ cabin. Because the look of loathing Prompto had given her when she suggested they both bunk in his old, much more spacious quarters had been so severe she was pretty sure the kid was going to throw himself on her lance if she made it non-negotiable. That had piqued her interest more than anything because Prompto rarely manages that level of negative emotion for anyone, save for his asshat progenitor.

 

 

Ardyn would probably be a close second. And this ‘Doctor Mirin’ certainly did look the part.

 

 

 

As she wanders back the way her subordinate had come, she recalls the last time she saw the Chancellor. Contact with Insomnia had eventually been lost and she’d gone in to investigate and found the Capitol to be seemingly abandoned.

 

 

 

_From one of Insomnia’s many skyscrapers, she surveys the land below. At first glance, nothing seems amiss until she notices that there’s no movement anywhere save for the occasional shambling of malfunctioning Magitek Troopers. It’s murky daytime so she’s not too worried but to see a place as large as the Crown City utterly devoid of even animal life is staggering._

_“Enjoying the view? I find it rather peaceful. -There was too much hustle and bustle before.”_

_She’s already balanced on the building’s edge by the time she hears the first syllables; her lance drawn before it becomes a question. The Chancellor looks the same as he always does; swathed in layers of dishabille like those people who wear their wealth on their backs. His crooked smile is the same too, but something feels… off._

_“A little too quiet for my tastes.” Aranea looks at him hard. She’s still not certain exactly what his end-game is, but once he appeared to have a shred of humanity in him. She attempts to appeal to that now._

_“ -Look. I heard you have a grudge with Lucian royals but this… -Whatever it is, it doesn’t involve the rest of these people. If there’s anyone left, let me get them out.”_

_His smile doesn’t change exactly but something in his eyes does, and her gauntlets creak as they tighten around the grips of her weapon._

_“Oh, philanthropy doesn’t suit you Commodore but as you will -You’re welcome to look around for survivors but you’ll likely not find any until after dark. They’ll be very happy to receive you then, I’m sure.”_

_Ardyn is still looking at her with that empty pleasant expression but something his happening to his face. It’s… getting more pale but other parts are… Her heel grinds as she instinctively tries to edge further away, even though there’s only open air at her back and the Chancellor is a good twenty or thirty paces from her._

_“Did Besithia do this to you? Is that why you decided to wipe out Gralea? How is killing innocents getting you justice? Or even just revenge?”_

_The Chancellor’s face is dripping what looks like tar-black ichor. Her chest seizes with ice-cold dread as she realizes that it’s_ Scourge _._

_“This?” His tongue swipes at some of the darkness at the corners of his mouth. “While I can place the blame of a great many things at Verstael’s feet,_ this _is not one of them.”_

_He takes a step but it’s more for dramatic effect than an actual advance. Still, she knows her time to fight or flight is almost come._

_“To answer your question, Gralea was merely collateral damage. Damage that could have been greatly lessened or even avoided by the actions of a handful of people who in the end, chose to do nothing to stop it. -So here we are.”_

_He makes a grand sweeping gesture at the silent city around them before turning back to her._

_“As for revenge… It’s all about the long-game, my dear. You can’t let yourself get distracted by the small things, lest you lose sight of what’s truly important.”_

_There’s a message in that, and Aranea looks down in time to see a spider web of black tendrils steadily inching towards her ledge. She decides this is as good a time as any to take her leave and she jumps to the next building. And the next. And the next._

_Behind her she hears the Chancellor call out: “Lovely to see you. Do come back and visit anytime!”_

 

 

 

She never sets foot in Insomnia again—not until well after the Dawn.

 

 

 

Aranea eventually finds her quarry in the Mess. She’d never seen the Chancellor so much as entertain the notion of food beyond the occasional glass of wine, though her observations were mostly during official functions where she was forced into the other’s company. When she enters, the Doctor freezes; a sandwich inches from his face and already half-gone. Which only scores a point for the man being an unfortunate victim of circumstance.

 

 

The look of mild dread however, is telling.

 

 

 

She smiles and doesn’t even try to make it look nice as she takes a seat at the table; the fastenings on her armor and capelets jingling slightly. The Good Doctor chews a few times in consideration; eyes flitting here and there before setting his sandwich down in defeat.

 

 

The swallow as he empties his mouth is audible.

 

 

“-Ah. Hello. What can I do for you Miss… Highwind, was it?”

 

 

Her smile deepens into something that would make people who knew her start backing away, but there’s nowhere for the Doctor to go that isn’t within her reach right now. She puts her gauntlets down heavily on the table and clasps them together; a sign that, if it wasn’t obvious already, that she isn’t here for food.

 

 

“Hello Doctor. I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. -Aranea Highwind. This is my boat.”

 

 

Technically it’s her sandwich too if he made it here in the Mess, but it’s been in his mouth so she’s prepared to be generous.

 

 

 

He tilts his head in acknowledgement.

 

 

“-Richter Mirin, though most everyone calls me ‘Doctor’ or just _Doc_.”

 

 

 

And then he clams up and the ball is in her court again. The Chancellor had been fond of his own voice but the Doctor is apparently playing close to the chest. Alright then.

 

 

 

“I can’t help but notice that you’ve been cooped up here for days. Surely some time in the city will do you good. Lestallum has a lot to offer. -I know some guides that will show you a good time.”

 

 

 

At this Doctor Mirin winces in distaste.

 

 

“If it’s all the same to you Captain, I’d prefer to stay close to the project. -There’s no telling when an accident might happen and my orders from the King are clear.”

 

 

 

It’s very obvious to her that the Doctor is… if not uncomfortable then certainly not enjoying his time wandering the ship, waiting for something to happen. She hadn’t been watching him too closely when he’d first come aboard so she’s not sure how he spent his time then, or during those first hours after landing in Lestallum.

 

 

 

“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t mean for you to devote every moment of spare time to being on-hand for something that might not even happen. -Besides, its just endless cycle checks right now. We’re not even close to the point of powering it up.”

 

 

There. Let him deny her perfectly logical reasoning. She arches a brow at his deepening frown.

 

 

_Got you._

 

 

 

He sighs as he crosses his arms over his chest. Classic defensive posture.

 

 

“If you must know, I find the city to be a little too… robust for my tastes. I’m a quiet man. I prefer a quiet setting and solitude will do nicely if nothing else.”

 

 

That raises the hairs on the back of her neck.

 

 

It’s almost like the conversation she had back then, with someone else.

 

It could be coincidence, but she trusts her gut and it’s telling her that the monster that tried, however half-assedly to infect her and the man who is currently scowling at her over a half-eaten sandwich are one and the same.

 

She just needs… something. Something _more_.

 

 

 

“Married to your work? -You know what they say about all work and no play…”

 

 

 

Doctor Mirin huffs at her continued needling.

 

 

 

“If I had a mind to care what other people think, I’m sure I’d be amazed by the lack of substance. -As for being married, well… I’m afraid I don’t kiss and tell. My work is the jealous type.”

 

 

 

He stands up from the table; his tray in hand. Aranea watches as he puts the plates and cutlery in the mess sink and dumps the rest of his drink in as well. The sandwich goes in the trash; a lost cause.

 

 

Finally, when he’s done all he can do without trying to actually _leave_ , he casts his gaze over her once more.

 

 

“It was nice to formally meet you, my dear. -Now if you’ll excuse—”

 

 

Something clicks into place and she has him against the wall with the blade of her lance pressed into the meat of his neck before he can finish. It takes her a moment to recall the trigger but she eventually realizes his simpering _my dear_ is what did it. He was very careful to call her by name or title (even though she’s not really a captain) but he slipped just like she was hoping he would and now she is about to… do something. Probably kill him.

 

 

To his credit, the Doctor looks more resigned than scared when he asks: “Was it something I said?”

 

 

She frowns. While she’s sure who she’s dealing with now, killing someone over a turn of phrase is pretty extreme—even if it _is_ potentially the man responsible for so much ruin.

 

 

What she needs is some plausible culpability.

 

 

She narrows her eyes at her captive who is staring placidly at the far wall, unable to look down at her without doing serious damage to himself.

 

 

“You have a phone. Where is it?”

 

 

 

He blinks at that.

 

 

“I believe it’s in my coat pocket. -Here, I can—"

 

 

 

She slaps his hand away and digs for it herself. When she finally pulls away with her prize, Aranea notices that the Good Doctor is bleeding slightly. He must have moved too much when he went for his phone, or maybe she pressed him too hard or whatever. It doesn’t look _bad_ , but it’s no small cut.

 

 

She keeps an eye on him while she navigates the phone.

 

 

She’s surprised to find that there’s no lock code. Once she hits the power button, she’s right on the home screen. It takes her a moment of awkward swiping to get to the call log. The phone has no apps other than the call function, messaging and a calendar. There are no texts and only a handful of calls listed.

 

 

Ug. What boring useless _crap_. They couldn’t pay her to be Crownsguard.

 

 

She actually makes a noise of frustration when she sees that there’s no contact information connected to any of the numbers.

 

 

“What’s the King’s number?”

 

 

 

His answer is dry and faintly amused.

 

 

“I’ve no idea. I just use the list and try to remember who called last.”

 

 

 

She frowns at that and considers pressing the issue but she needs him conscious enough to answer questions since he obviously barely knows how to operate this most basic form of technology.

 

 

“You are so _old_. -Who called last then?”

 

 

 

He raises a brow at that.

 

 

“The King was my last caller. And I take offense to that. I don’t look a day over thirty-five; forty at the _most_. -Shall I give you some tips, because those crow’s feet are only going to get worse.”

 

 

She puts a little more pressure into haft as she dials the King.

 

 

“Says the man who is literally older than _dirt_. -Also _fuck you_. Proof of age has nothing to do with how you look and everything to do with how you suck at anything not fifty years ago.”

 

 

He still looks amused but he shuts up, which is good because the King answers on the second ring.

 

 

_“Doctor, to what do I owe the pleasure?”_

 

 

‘-Oh believe me Scientia, the pleasure is _all mine_.”

 

 

 

There’s a pronounced pause before the King says: “Aranea?”

 

 

 

She rolls her eyes at the question. She must have caught him off-guard because he’s usually better than this.

 

 

“Does anyone else talk to you like this? -Yes it’s me. I’ve got Doctor Mirin here with me. -Did you know that we used to work for the same crazy asshole? Small world, right?”

 

 

There’s a sigh on the other end.

 

 

_“Is he dead?”_

She gives the sluggishly bleeding man a once-over.

 

 

“Not yet, but we’re getting there. -That doesn’t sound like surprise, by the way. Tell me you didn’t knowingly stow the Accursed on my boat. I really need to hear that from you.”

 

 

Unfortunately the King does not tell her that, but instead gives her the truth. -It eventually takes a lot of promises of money and favors to keep her from shutting down the Zegnautus project immediately; along with a demonstration of why the former Chancellor of Niflheim still draws breath.

 

 

At the King’s request, she puts the phone on speaker so he can address the man directly.

 

 

“ _Doctor, could you possibly give the Lady Highwind a first-hand account of why you are Head of Medical, despite your former employment? -I assume you’ve accumulated at least a scratch.”_

The former Chancellor gives her a Look but she doesn’t let up on the weapon at his throat; the blood running down his neck a testament to her skill at one-handed phoning. He rolls his eyes and slaps a hand up to the wound.

 

 

Even under the bright, artificial halogens she can see the slight glow around his hand. When he moves it away, the skin is pristine. There’s not even any blood.

 

 

“It was barely a cut. -A love-tap really, from someone as _sharp_ as the Commodore.”

 

 

That almost makes her give him another, but not unlike when he was a walking sack of disease vaguely in the shape of a man, it would be a wasted effort.

 

 

A long-suffering sigh wafts through the air between them, before the King delivers a warning.

 

 

_“I would advise not to further aggravate your host, as she has been most gracious in her accommodations. -If you would, please take me off speaker. This is a discussion best had with as few listeners as possible.”_

 

 

Aranea obliges him and she finally releases the ‘Doctor’, who makes a show of straightening his clothes like almost dying on her spear was really just a minor inconvenience. She makes the universal sign for ‘I’m watching you’ with her free hand before stalking off to a place where she can squeeze the details out of the King. Whom she now sort-of owns.

 

 

She briefly entertains blackmailing her way to Queen (and being the filler in an Amicitia/Scientia sandwich) but that’s a little too much power. With an equally heavy burden of responsibility. She prefers the freedom her current status affords. Anything else would take more effort than it was worth.

 

 

At the very least this explains Prompto’s reaction. She winces with sympathy. Poor kid. She can’t imagine rooming with that weirdo. -Good thing she didn’t press the issue.

 

 

 

She makes a note to have either Biggs or Wedge on the Doctor at all times (once Wedge is done with her errand, anyway) and gives the King her full attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, on Dragon Ball Z... (Sorry, had to XD).
> 
> A note on Glamour: so the way this works, in this story at least, is more like a misdirection. Like... a reflection where the person perceiving the glamour sees what they want to see, and the more they know the person being reflected the more effective the deception. But it's effectiveness depends entirely on what the caster is trying to convey. When Ardyn used this to trick Noctis in the game, it worked really well because the glamour was geared to look like specific people that Noctis both knew and had strong feelings for. So his own brain helped fuel the trick.
> 
> The way Ardyn is using it currently is not as effective because he's not projecting a specific person, he is merely trying to draw attention or recognition away from himself. He actually looks like his DLC self, so that helps but in this case the glamour merely places reasonable doubt in the person's mind. But it's based primarily on visual perception, which is why it didn't work on Ignis very well but still fooled Cor, who is very perceptive by nature (Cor saw what he wanted to see). With Aranea, it was her own will and instincts that proved more powerful than the doubt the spell produced. 
> 
> -I hope this isn't confusing. Ardyn was going to explain this and then I got tired of dialogue so I figured I'd put it here. (Also, I keep trying to make Ardyn a sexual being but he keeps pushing me away by the face and saying 'no.' -He's so mean).


End file.
